A=. 

-;. 

A  '•-  :-'   ! 

0  ^       • 

-0  ^^ 

0  ^^s 

?— 1^ 

4  ^iiifc^l 

h      ^^^^^S  nn 

1    ^^S^ 

8  ^^" 

1 

THE 


EARL'S    DAUGHTER, 


BY 

E.    M.    SEWELL. 


"Life,  ...  is  energy  of  Love, 
Divine  or  human ;  exercised  in  pain, 
In  strife,  and  tribulation ;  and  ordained, 
If  so  approved  and  sanctified,  to  pass, 
Througli  shades  and  silent  rest,  to  endless  joy." 

The  Excursion. 


NEW  YOEK: 

I).    APPLETON    AXD    COMPANY, 

1,  3,  AND  5  BOND  STREET. 

1881. 


Digitized  by  tlie  Internet  Arcliive 

in  2008  witli  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.arcli  ive.org/details/experiencesewellOOsewe 


THE   EAPtL'S    DAUGHTER 


CHAPTER  I. 

There  was  an  unusual  stir  in   the  old  cathedral  town  of 
It  was  neither  a  market-day,  nor  the  anniversarv  of 


a  public  fete  ;  neither  the  season  of  the  annual  visitation,  nor 
of  any  public  meeting  ;  yet  the  narrow  footways  were  thronged, 
and  knots  of.  idlers  stood  inconveniently  at  the  corners  of  the 
streets,  making  their  remarks  upon  the  few  carriages  which 
enlivened  the  generally  dull  town,  or  noticing  with  interest  the 
occasional  approach  of  the  rows  of  neatly  dressed  school 
children,  who,  with  orderly  steps  and  serious  looks,  were  bend- 
ing their  way  to  the  open  square  in  which  stood  the  great 
entrance  to  the  cathedral.  Gravity,  indeed,  was  the  pervading 
deportment  of  all  the  assembling  crowd ;  but  a  deeper,  more 
reverent,  and  anxious  feeUng  might  be  traced  upon  the  features 
of  some,  who,  fully  aware  of  the  difficulties  of  a  Christian  life, 
were  about  to  witness  the  renewal  of  those  vows  by  which  the 
ignorant  and  untried,  the  weak  and  the  erring,  in  the  midst  of 
a  sinful  world,  and  about  to  enter  upon  the  scene  of  its  tempta- 
tions, pledge  themselves  in  the  sight  of  an  All  Holy  God,  to  be 
His  in  spirit,  in  truth,  and  for  ever.     It  was  the  day  appointed 

for  the  Confirmation  of  all  within  the  diocese  of who  had 

attained  the  age  required  by  the  Bishop,  and  on  few  occasions 
had  a  more  careful  preparation  been  made  for  the  due  obser- 
vance of  this  important  rite.  The  time  had  gone  by  when  the 
verbal  repetition  of  the  Church  Catechism  was  alone  deemed 
necessary  for  tlje  candidates.  A  more  zealous  spirit  had  arisen, 
and  many,  who  had  themselves  been  allowed  to  renew  their 
baptismal  vows,  without  thought  or  prayer,  now,  warned  bv 
past  experience,  endeavoured  most  earnestly  to  urge  upon 
others  the  importance  of  the  period  which  they  had  reached, 
and  the  real  meaning  of  the  words,  which  from  childhood  had 
bi'i'n  familiar  to  their  lips  ! 

The  Confirmation  of  that  day  was  felt  to  be  a  most  solemn 
«Ajt  of  self-dedicaticn  ;  and  as  the  knights  of  old,  when  prepar- 


857110 


4  THE      EARLS      DAUGHTER. 

inc  to  assume  the  insio-iun  and  encounter  the  perils  of  theii 
order,  were  accustomed  to  fast,  and  watch  and  pray,  that  they 
micht  be  enabled  to  struggle  and  conquer  in  the  unknown 
dangers  before  them  ;  so  the  young  aspirants  to  the  full  privi- 
le<Tes  of  Christianity  were  taught  to  liumble  themselves  by 
repentance,  and  prepare  their  hearts  by  prayer,  that  in  the  hour 
of  temptation  they  might  not  be  forgetful  of  their  high  calling, 
and  tall  short  of  their  eternal  reward.  The  spectacle  which  the 
cathedral  church  of  St.  Mark  exhibited  when  the  choir  was 
tilled,  before  the  service  of  the  church  began,  was  one  of  no 
common  interest.  The  broad  light  of  the  sun,  as  its  rays 
streamed  through  the  stained  windows,  fell  upon  fair  young 
faces  chastened  by  holy  thoughts,  and  boyish  features  subdued 
into  stillness  by  the  pressure  of  a  strange  and  hitherto  unfelt 
awe.  There  were  countenances  which  told  of  fear  and  wonder, 
and  some,  it  might  be,  of  indifference ;  there  were  eyes  bent 
upon  the  page  in  which  the  vow  to  be  renewed  was  recorded  ; 
and  lips  moving  in  silent  prayer  that  strength  might  be  granted 
for  its  fulfilment  ;  whilst,  at  times,  over  those  youthful  faces 
there  passed  the  shadow  of  a  dai'k  cloud,  the  cloud  of  the 
memory  of  sin ;  the  vision  of  cherished  offences,  of  indulged 
tempers, — vanity  and  pride,  selfishness  and  irreverence, — the 
bitter  fruits  of  an  evil  nature,  now  a  second  time  to  be  publicly 
renounced  for  ever.  Was  it  to  be  marvelled  at,  if  in  some  then 
present  the  weakness  of  humanity  for  a  moment  shrank  from 
the  warfiire  imposed  upon  it,  and  would  fain  have  returned  to 
the  bondage  of  Egypt,  the  indulgence  of  earthly  inclination, 
rather  than  brave  the  battle  with  those  stern  enemies — the 
world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil — which  throng  the  borders  of 
the  land  of  promise  ? 

But  the  wish,  if  it  arose,  was  founded  on  error.  The  candi- 
dates for  Confirmation  were  no  longer  free  to  choose.  Once 
baptized,  once  admitted  into  the  fellowship  of  the  Catholic 
Church,  and  there  could  be  no  drawing  back.  The  members 
of  Christ,  the  children  of  God,  the  inheritors  of  the  kingdom 
of  heaven,  could  never  again  "  be  as  the  heathen."  They 
might  despise  their  privileges,  and  break  their  vows  ;  but  the 
privileges  had  still  been  granted,  and  they  must  be  answerable 
for  them  ;  the  vows  were  still  upon  their  heads,  and  so  would 
also  be  the  punishment  for  neglect.  For  them  it  could  never 
be  a  question,  whether  they  would  accept  Christianity :  but 
whether,  having  accepted,  they  would  renounce  it ;  and  even 
Ihe  most  indifierent  amongst  the  professed  followers  of  Christ 


THE      EARLS      DAUGUTER 


would  surely  have  trembled  to  risk  the  woe  which  inusl  inevi- 
tably follow  an  open,  deliberate  apostacy. 

But  although  no  second  promise  could  in  reality  increase  th. 
binding  responsibility  of  the  first,  j-et  the  public  ratification  ol 
a  covenant  with  God  must  ever  be  regarded  with  awe.  Tin 
baptismahi'ow  was  now  for  the  first  time  fully  impressed  upoi 
the  consciences  of  many  by  whom  it  had  scarcely  before  been 
renferabered,  and  they  trembled  as  the  moment  approached 
when  they  were  to  seal  it  with  the  consent  of  their  own  liiis. 

The  peaceful  soothing  words  of  the  daily  service  were  said, 
and  when  they  were  ended  there  stood  before  the  altar  of  God, 
the  high-born  inheritors  of  honour  and  wealth,  and  the  gentle 
children  nursed  in  affluence  and  retirement,  and  the  humble 
otfspring  of  poverty,  united  by  one  creed,  one  hope,  one  danger, 
and  summoned  to  join  in  one  common  act  of  self-dedication. 

Together  they  listened  to  the  earnest  supplication  which  w;is 
to  bring  down  upon  them  froin  on  high  the  "  sevenfold  gifts  of 
grace  ;  "  and  then  side  by  side  they  knelt,  and  each  in  turn 
bowed  beneath  a  hand  of  blessing — the  blessing  of  their 
spiritual  Father  in  Christ. 

Once  more  they  were  seated  as  before,  to  receive  from  the 
Bishop's  mouth  the  words  of  advice,  and  warning,  and  consola- 
tion, which  were  to  guide  them  amidst  the  temptations  of  life ; 
and  when  the  final  benediction  was  given,  and  the  full  tones  of 
the  organ  jiealed  through  the  long  aisles,  they  parted  even  as 
they  had  met,  for  the  greater  part,  unknowing  and  unre- 
garding,  to  many  a  distant  home,  never  to  meet  together 
agam  in  one  place  till  they  should  stand  before  the  judgment- 
seat  of  God,  to  answer  for  the  fulfilment  of  the  vow  which  had 
that  hour  been  reffistered  in  heaven. 


CHAPTER  II. 

It  was  the  evening  of  the  same  day,  a  day  of  unwonted 
brilliancy  and  warmth.  The  sounds  of  busy  life  were  lading 
upon  the  listening  ear,  the  cattle  were  returning  from  the 
pa^itures,  the  birds  were  seeking  their  nests,  the  tired  workman 
was  slowly  wending  his  way  towards  his  home,  and  the  deep 
tones  of  the  cathedral  clock  as  it  struck  the  hour  of  eight  fell 
with  a  warning  voice  upon  the  few  who  were  still  engrossed  in 
their  round  of  daily  occupation. 


6  THE      EAULS     DAUGHTER. 

The  peaceful ncss  of  such  an  liour  was  felt  even  amidst  the 
bustle  of  a  crowded  town,  and  the  jar  of  folly  and  vice  ;  but  in 
the  quiet  garden  of  the  old  grey  inanor-house  of  St.  Ebbe's 
there  was  nothing  to  disturb  the  hallowing  etfect  of  its  influence. 
The  low  ivy-covered  walls  which  enclosed  it  seemed  built  for  the 
very  j)urj)ose  of  excluding  all  thoughts  of  the  busy  world  ;  the 
long  green  walks  invited  to  regular  exercise  and  meditation ; 
the  neatly-trinnned  borders,  gay  with  flowers,  spoke  of  careful- 
ness and  simplicity,  and  appreciation  of  the  loveliness  of  nature; 
and  the  quaint  sun-dial,  raised  upon  a  circle  of  rough  stone 
steps  in  the  centre,  gave  a  silent  call  to  the  unthinking  to  note 
the  flight  of  time,  whilst  it  bade  them,  in  the  words  of  Holy 
Writ,  which  were  graven  upon  its  pedestal,  "  watch  and  pray, 
that  they  might  not  enter  into  temptation."  The  building 
itself,  with  its  weather-stained  walls,  and  mullioned  windows 
and  deep  porch,  accorded  perfectly  with  the  quaint  style  of  the 
garden.  It  was  not  large,  and  boasted  few  architectural  orna- 
ments ;  but  it  was  the  existing  symbol  of  bygone  years,  and 
insensibly  carried  back  the  mind  to  times  far  removed  from  the 
jiresent,  when  if  mankind  were  not  wiser  and  better  they  were 
at  least  less  restless,  and  when  the  lords  of  the  manor  of  St. 
Ebbe's  were  willing  to  "  dwell  amongst  their  own  people,"  and 
knew  no  higher  interest  in  life  than  that  of  providing  for  their 
welfare.  So  it  was  not  now ;  the  house,  and  the  garden,  and 
the  lands,  which  once  were  deemed  indissolubly  attached,  had 
been  divided  into  separate  lots :  the  manor-house  had  become  a 
farm-house,  the  fiirm-house  had  been  neglected ;  and,  ruined 
and  dilapidated,  would  have  fallen  into  almost  hopeless  decay, 
but  for  a  succession  of  fortunate  events  which  placed  it  in  the 
hands  of  those  who  were  willing  to  expend  some  money  and 
much  taste  in  restoring  it,  though  not  to  its  original  beauty,  yet 
to  a  condition  in  which  it  might  oe  inhabited  with  comfort. 

The  inmates  of  the  manor-house,  in  its  present  state,  were 
widely  dirterent  from  its  early  occupants ;  and  if  the  first  Sir 
Ralph  de  Bretonville,  whom  tradition  asserted  to  have  been  the 
founder  of  the  family,  could  have  looked  upon  the  youthful 
figures  standing  upon  the  dial-steps,  and  watching  the  gradual 
fading  of  the  gorgeous  sunset,  iie  might  have  deemed  them 
beings  of  another  race,  so  little  could  they  have  resembled  the 
uncouth  train  of  revellers,  huntsmen,  and  serving  men,  with 
whom  his  own  halls  must  have  been  filled. 

They  were  two  girls,  who  appeared  to  have  scarcely  passed 
the  age  of  sixteen — unlike  in  dress,  height,  and  figure*    but 


THE      EARLS      DAUGHTER. 


showin<x,   by  an    unrestrained    ease   of  manner,    that   the    tie 
between  them,  if  not  of  blood,  was  one  of  familiar  intimacy. 

The  taller — and,  seemingly,  the  elder — of  the  two  was  finely 
formed,  and  dignified,  almost  commanding  in  manner,  ller 
dark  hair  was  "braided,  with  studied  neatness,  across  a  high 
forehead, "and  one  long  ringlet  fell  on  either  side  upon  the  well- 
turned  neck,  over  which  a  shawl  had  been  hastily  thrown  to 
pr(5tect  her  from  the  evening  air.  Her  complexion  was  clear, 
and  briUiant  with  the  hues  of  youth  and  health ;  and  none, 
probably,  could  have  turned  an  indifterent  gaze  upon  the  perfect 
contour' of  her  features  ; — the  deep  set  hazel  eye--the  Grecian 
nose — the  full  expressive  mouth,  which  bespoke  intellect  and 
energy,  and  natural  elevation  of  character  ; — and  as  she  stood, 
with  one  band  pointed  to  the  glowing  ?ky,  and  the  other  rest- 
ing upon  the  dial-plate,  whilst  the  dazzling  hues  of  sunset  fell 
upon  her  graceful  figure,  she  might  have  been  fitly  deemed  the 
representative  of  the  Sibyl,  or  the  Pythoness,  exulting  in  the 
first  enthusiasm  of  inspiration. 

Her  companion  it  will  be  less  easy  to  pourtray  ;  for  Lady 
Blanche  Evelyn  was  not  regularly  beautiful.  She  was  slight  in 
figure,  and  rather  below  the  usual  height; — her  complexion 
w-as  naturally  pale,  though,  at  that  moment,  tinged  by  the 
faint  crinison-flush  of  interest  and  agitation  ; — her  eyes,  dark 
and  exquisitely  soft,  were  not  striking  in  their  brilliancy,  like 
those  of  her  friend.  There  was  less  of  a  marked  outhne  in  the 
contour  of  her  face,  even  of  the  long-chiselled  nose  and  peculiai'ly 
sweet  mouth;  and  the  clustering  ringlets  of  glossy  chestnut 
hair,  which  shaded  her  features,  gave  an  air  of  greater  youth- 
fulness  to  her  general  a]"»pearance.  The  forehead — high,  open, 
and  intellectual — bore,  indeed,  some  resemblance  to  her  com- 
panion's, but  the  expression  of  the  whole  countenance  was 
but  little  affected  by  it. 

It  was  not  intellect  which  could  have  been  uppermost  in  the 
thoughts  of  any  pei-son,  looking,  for  the  first  time,  upon  Lady 
Blanche  Evelyn.'  The  sparkle  in  her  eye,  the  smile  upon  her 
lips,  tlie  light  eager  animation  of  manner,  chastened  by  refine- 
ment and  simplicity,  were  the  tokens  of  a  heart  delighting  in 
the  first  freshness  of  life ;  remembering  the  past  without  regret, 
and  painting  visions  of  tlie  future  with  innocent  enjoyment;  and 
if,  for  a  moment,  a  transient  shade  of  thought  passed  over  the 
sunshine  of  her  fair  young  features,  it  was  the  thought,  not  of 
foreboding  or  discontent,  but  of  a  mind  to  which  the  mysterio'-i; 


8  THE    earl's    daughter. 

rcalitios  of  the  unseen  workl  were  presenting  tlieinselves  with 
all  tlioir  overwiielniing  power. 

(iraceful,  pentle,  and  cliikllike  as  she  was,  she  might  have 
been  deemed  by  ni;iny  unfitted  to  cope  with  the  trials  of  the 
world  ;  but,  whether  it  were  from  the  natural  dignity  of  one 
upon  whom  the  honours  of  a  long  line  of  ancestry  were  destineO 
to  descend,  or  from  a  strength  of  character  unknown  only 
because  untried, — an  under  current  of  firmness  ran  through  her 
words  and  actions ;  scarcely  indeed  ])erceived,  except  by  minute 
observation,  but  then  disjilaying  itself  even  in  the  intonations  of 
her  musical  voice,  and  the  increasing  earnestness  of  her  gestures, 
as  she  pursued  her  conversation. 

"  To-morrow,"  she  said,  as  she  threw  her  arm  affectionately 
around  her  companion,  "to-morrow,  Eleanor,  by  this  time  I  may 
have  seen  him,  and  yon  may  have  seen  him  too ;  our  plans  will 
not  seem  dreamy  then." 

"  They  will  to  me,"  was  the  reply  ;  "  till  I  can  see  how  they 
may  be  carried  out :  and  I  dread  to-morrow,  lest  it  should 
make  me  forget  to-day." 

"  Sometimes  it  seems  impossible  to  forget,"  replied  Blanche, 
as  she  gazed  intently  upon  the  golden  sky.  "  Now,  it  seems 
so ;  and  then  again, — oh  !  Eleanor,  I  feel  it  will  be  very  hard  : 
— when  my  thoughts  are  given  to  earthly  things  my  heart  will 
follow  :  and  yet  at  this  time  how  can  I  help  it  ?" 

"  Then,  it  cannot  be  wrong,"  said  Eleanor,  soothinglj'. 
"  If  I  could  but  think  so  !     But,  after  this  morning,  no  one 
w  ho  had  really  fixed  [irinciples  would  be  as  changeable  as  I  am." 
"  No  one  thinks  you  changeable,  except  yourself^"  answered 
Eleanor. 

"I  know  myself  better  than  others  know  me,  then,"  said 
Blanche.  "  Even,  after  all  I  have  promised — all  those  prayers, 
and  the  charge,  and  all  my  resolutions,  I  cannot  keep  my  mind 
fixed  as  I  ought.  I  have  such  dreams  of  home,  and  of*  Papa ; 
and  when  I  shut  myself  up  this  afternoon,  and  tried  to  do  what 
Mrs.  Uoward  advised,  I  was  wandering  to  things  gone  bv, — all 
that  has  happened  since  we  have  been  here.  I  wonder  whether 
othei-s  have  the  same  difSculties." 

Eleanor  thought  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  said,  rather  ab- 
ruptly, "  Did  you  notice  that  sickly  girl  who  sat  to  the  right  of 
us,  at  the  head  of  the  charity-school  ?" 

"  Yes,"  exclaimed  Blanche  ;  "  her  eyes  never  seemed  to  move 
except  when  the  chanting   began,  and    then  she  looked   up 


THE    earl's    daughter  9 

ainoi)a;st  the  arches  of  the  cathedral  with  such  intense  awe.  J 
was  vexed  with  myself  fur  thinking  about  her,  and  yet  it  did 
me  good." 

"She  was  bhnd,"  continued  Eleanor;  "  one  of  her  compa- 
nions led  her  up  to  the  altar  as  we  left  it.  Mrs.  Howard  says 
she  comes  from  Rutherford  ;  and  I  mean  to  ask  papa  if  he 
knows  her." 

^'  I  think  I  could  bear  to  be  blind,"  observed  Blanche,  "  if  I 
could  only  feel,  as  I  am  sure  she  did.  But  the  world  is  so 
beautiful,  and  it  is  so  pleasant  to  live  and  to  be  loved  !" 

"  Yes,"  said  Eleanor ;  "  for  you,  especially,  who  have  every- 
thing else  that  the  world  can  give." 

"  Why  should  I  have  so  much  ?"  exclaimed  Blanche.  "  It 
is  very  strange ;  and  when  I  looked  at  that  poor  girl  it  fright- 
ened me.  And  yet,  Eleanor."  she  continued,  and  a  shade 
almost  of  sadness,  passed  over  her  face,  "  it  may  all  be  marred. 
I  shall  be  like  a  stranger  in  my  home,  and  papa  may  have 
lost  his  English  tastes,  and  be  vexed  that  I  am  not  what  he 
pictured." 

"  You  are  fanciful,"  replied  Eleanor,  with  an  air  of  authority  ; 
"you  should  remember  what  Mrs.  lloward  says  about  uot 
creating  evils." 

"  Butjie  will  be  my  all,"  said  Blanche,  humbly  ;  "  If  his  love 
fails  me,  what  shall  I  have  to  look  to  V  Eleanor's  countenance 
expressed  surprise,  and  Blanche  instantly  corrected  herself;  "on 
earth,  I  mean,"  she  said  ;  "  but  that  is  an  instance  of  what  I 
mentioned  just  now  about  forgetting.  I  know  that  I  ought  to 
be  calm  and  trusting,  thinking  of  to-day  instead  of  to-morrow. 
Do  you  remember  the  Bishop's  saying  it  was  part  of  our 
duty  ?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Eleanor ;  "  I  was  looking  at  the  blind  girl  at 
the  instant,  and  her  face  brightened  when  she  heard  it,  as 
little  Clara's  does  when  she  first  gains  a  new  idea." 

Blanche  w;vs  silent  for  several  minutes.  "  I  must  not  think," 
she  exclaimed,  at  length  ;  "  the  time  is  coming  so  near.  When 
the  sun  goes  down  again,  I  may  be  watching  it  from  the  terrace 
at  Rutherford  " 

"  And  I  from  the  rectory,"  said  Eleanor.  "  We  shall  be 
separated  then." 

The  words  sounded  reproachfully  ;  and  Blanche  eagerly  ex- 
claimed, "  Only  for  a  few  hours  ;  our  homes  will  be  almost  the 
eame.  You  do  not  think,  Eleanor,  that  I  could  be  happy  if  it 
trero  not  so." 


10  THE      earl's      daughter. 

"  Not  now.  But,  Blanclie,  the  path  of  your  life  will  lead  you 
away  from  ine  into  the  world,  and  amongst  guy  friends  ;  you 
will  have  many  other  lies." 

"  l>ut  the  one,"  said  Blanche  ;  "  where  can  I  find  that  ?  The 
blessing  which  was  given  us  to-day  together  will  never  be  re- 
peated again  ; — ours  can  never  be  a  common  love." 

Eleanor  grew  very  thoughtful.  "  Promise  to  love  me  always," 
she  said.     "  Doubt  comes  over  me  sadly  at  times." 

Blanche  did  not  promise  ;  but  she  looked  at  Eleanor  with 
wonder,  as  if  not  comprehending  the  meaning  of  her  words,  and 
before  she  could  reply,  some  one  was  heard  to  repeat  her  name; 
and  a  little  girl,  about  ten  years  of  age,  ran  up  to  them,  ex- 
claiming, "  Yuu  must  come  directly, — this  moment ;  you  must 
not  wait  a  miimte ;  Mrs.  Howard  wants  you  in  her  room. 
Pray,  Eleanor,  don't  keej)  her." 

"■  Is  it  for  me  ?  JJ>id  Mrs.  Howard  send  for  me,  Clara  ?"  and 
the  colour  faded  from  Blanche's  cheek. 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Howard  ;  and" — the  child  stopped,  put  her  finger 
upon  her  lip,  and  smiled  archly. 

"  Who  2     What  ?     Who  is  here  ?"  asked  Eleanor. 

"  Never  mind ;  don't  ask  questions.  Mrs.  Howard  told  me 
I  was  to  make  haste." 

Lady  Blanche  said  nothing ;  she  leant  against  the  sun-dial, 
and  every  limb  trembled. 

"  You  are  ill,  dearest,"  said  Eleanor,  affectionately ;  "  and 
this  suspense  is  dreadful  for  you.  Clara,  you  must  tell  us— Is 
Lord  liutherford  arrived  ?" 

Clara  was  delighted  at  her  own  power,  and  turning  away,  ex- 
claimed, "  For  once  Eleanor  Wentvvorth  cannot  have  her  will." 

"  But  Blanclie  Evelyn  can;"  and  Blanche  drew  the  little  girl 
t  ^wards  her,  and  said  in  a  faint  voice,  "  If  you  love  me, 
Clara"— 

The  appeal  was  successful.  Clara's  arm  was  put  within 
hers;  and,  looking  up  in  Blanche's  face  to  watch  the  etlect  of 
her  information,  she  whisjiered,  "  I  have  not  seen  him  ;  but 
Mary  and  Agnes  have." 

Blanche  scarcely  waited  to  near  the  last  word,  before  she  had 
flown  tow-irds  the  house ;  but  as  sne  reached  the  porch  she 
stopped — her  courage  had  failed. 

Eleanor  was  at  her  side  immediately.  "  He  must  love  you— 
dote  upon  you,  Blanche  ;  and  his  letters — you  do  him  injustice 
fj}'  being  afraid." 

Blanche  ])ut  her  hand  before  her  eyes  ;  and  holier  tho'igLta 


THE      EARLS      DAUGHTER.  1] 

came  to  her  aid.  One  Father,  she  had,  who  knew  the  weak- 
ness of  llis  child,  and  could  strengthen  her  as  well  against  the 
infirmity  of  nature,  as  against  the  temj^tations  of  sin.  She 
placed  her  icy  lingers  within  Eleanor's,  and  clasped  them  with 
the  energy  of  nervous  resolution  ;  and  then,  with  a  fiim  step, 
turned  aw'ay  to  seek  for  the  first  time,  since  she  had  been  con- 
scious of  existence,  the  presence  of  her  father. 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  Earl  of  Rutherford  was  a  man,  the  ruling  principle  of 
whose  character  was  generally  supposed  to  be  easily  discovered 
from  his  expressive  countenance  :  conscious  nobility,  a  love  of 
command,  an  impetuous  temper,  and  a  powerful  intellect,  were 
]ilainly  inscribed  upon  it.  He  was  born  to  honour,  accustomed 
from  infancy  to  rule,  and  the  world  had  decided  that  pride  w\as 
the  governing  motive  of  his  actions.  So  at  least  it  was  said, 
when,  fifteen  years  before,  he  had  suddenly  left  his  ancestral 
home,  upon  the  death  of  a  wife,  whom,  if  he  had  not  loved,  he 
had  at  least  treated  with  the  outward  marks  of  respect ;  and 
confiding  his  infant  daughter  to  the  care  of  a  lady,  the  pei-sonal 
friend  of  the  countess,  left  England  with  the  avowed  determina 
tion  of  remaining  abroad  for  some  years.  The  step,  strange 
though  it  appeared,  was  declared  not  incompatible  with  his  charac- 
ter. Tlie  grief  preying  upon  his  heart  was  said  to  be  less  the 
('  3ath  of  his  wife,  than  the  failure  of  a  male  heir ;  and  the  Lady 
Blanche  Evelyn,  although  born  to  inherit  both  the  title  and  its 
annexed  estates,  was  considered  to  be  an  oVjject  of  compassion 
rather  than  of  love  to  her  haughty  fiither,  from  the  feeling  that 
it  was  impossible  for  a  woman  fitly  to  support  the  dignity  of  the 
family,  and  the  dread  lest  the  event  of  her  marriage  with  some 
vet  more  distinguished  individual  should  sink  liis  own  noble 
"house  into  coBipatative  insignificance.  All  this  the  world  said. 
The  Earl  of  Rutherford  was  pitied,  but  censured  ;  his  sorrow  it 
was  imagined  would  be  transitory,  and  his  journey  was  con- 
sideied  merely  the  impulse  of  a  hastj^  moment.  That  he  would 
return  again,  it  might  be  with  a  foreign  bride,  or  at  least  to  seek 
another  in  England,  was  considered  a  matter  of  certainty  ;  and 
yet,  year  after  year  went  by,  and  the  Castle  of  Rutherford  was 
slill  left  unoccupied.  Political  engagements  it  was  known  were 
m  a  gi-eat  meiisure  the  cause  of  the  earl's  absence,  but  thev 


L2  THE      earl's      DAUGHTEK. 

would  not  account  for  an  exile  of  such  length  ;  and  the  rumours 
which  were  at  lirst  circuhited  regarding  a  second  marriage  at 
length  ceased.  Tidings  of  hira  were  heard — sometimes  at 
Rome,  sometimes  at  Vienna,  once  at  Constantinoi>le ;  but  all 
gave  the  same  impression.  If  Lord  Rutherford  had  been  con- 
sidered proud  at  home,  he  was  tUought  to  be  yet  more  so  in  the 
careless  ease  of  continental  society.  The  noblest  and  fairest 
ornaments  of  European  courts  passed  before  him,  but  all  were 
alike  unnoticed  ;  and,  at  the  expiration  of  fifteen  years,  he  wa.s 
returning  to  his  native  land,  witli  the  same  impenetrable  man- 
ner, the  same  cold  reserve  of  tone,  for  which  he  had  been 
remarkable  on  leaving  it.  And  in  the  mean  time  his  child 
grew  up  in  retirement,  under  the  care  of  a  lady  every  way  cal- 
culated for  such  a  charge.  Mrs.  Howard  was  a  widow,  who,  at 
the  age  of  thirty,  found  herself  suddenly  reduced  from  a  situa- 
tion of  affluence  and  happiness,  as  the  wife  of  a  beneficed  clergy- 
man, to  one  of  almost  hopeless  poverty.  The  death  of  her 
husband,  which  had  been  so  sudden  as  to  prevent  him  from 
making  any  satisfactory  arrangement  of  his  property,  joined 
with  other  circumstances  perfectly  unforeseen,  had  combined  to 
])roduce  this  great  misfortune ;  and,  but  for  the  long-tried 
friendship  of  the  Countess  of  Rutheifurd,  Mrs.  Howard's  pros- 
pects would  indeed  have  been  dark.  Through  her  exertions, 
however,  the  manoi'-house  of  St.  Ebbe's  was  purchased,  and  fitted 
up  so  as  to  accommodate  Mrs.  Howard  and  the  few  i)U[)ils  whose 
education  she  was  able  to  undertake  ;  and  when,  in  the  pros- 
pect of  approaching  death,  the  countess  gazed  in  sadness  upon 
her  child,  her  chief  earthly  consolation  was  derived  from  the 
hope  that  the  earl  would  consent  to  place  the  infant  Lady 
Blanche  under  the  care  of  the  only  person  in  whose  affection 
and  principle  she  was  able  implicitly  to  confide.  Lord  Ruther- 
ford was  not  present  to  receive  the  dying  injunction  of  his 
wife,  but  her  wishes  were  received  with  an  attention  nearly 
amounting  to  superstition.  Lady  Blanche  was  removed  to  St. 
Ebbe's,  and  the  sole  charge  of  her  education  trusted  to  Mrs. 
Howard,  with  but  one  stipulation — that  she  should  have  no 
companion.  For  a  few  years  this  agreement  was  easily  kept. 
During  the  child's  infancy  she  was  perfectly  satisfied  with  Mi-s. 
Howard  as  her  nurse,  instructress,  and  playfellow  ;  but  new 
wants  were  discovered  with  increasing  years,  and  Mrs.  Howard, 
b»rlieving  that  such  a  solitary  education  might  operate  unfavour- 
ably upon  her  character,  at  length  prevailed  upon  the  earl  tc 
allow  her  to  receive  into  her  tamily  Eleanor  Wentvvorth,  the 


THE     earl's     daughter.  13 

daughter  of  the  rector  of  Rutherford.  Blanche  was  at  tb.is 
tiaie  about  seven  years  of  age,  and  fully  able  to  appreciate  the 
charms  of  companionship.  Eleanor  was  clever,  generous,  and 
affectionate ;  and  the  progress  made  by  both  the  children  from 
the  period  of  their  being  placed  together  convinced  Mrs.  How- 
ard that  slie  had  judged  wisely  in  the  advice  which  she  had 
given :  and  when,  in  the  course  of  events,  the  care  of  three 
littl^  orphan  nieces  devolved  upon  her,  she  had  no  difficulty  in 
Dersuading  Lord  Rutherford  to  allow  them  also  to  share  her 
attention  at  St.  Ebbe's. 

The  charm  of  society  was  felt  chiefly  by  Blanche.  Eleanor 
•■eturned  to  her  home  at  stated  times,  and  mixed  with  other 
friends,  and  enjoyed  the  novelty  of  other  scenes  ;  but  to  Blanche 
the  occupations  of  the  manor-liouse,  the  interest  of  the  village 
of  St.  Ebbe's,  and  the  dull  liveliness  of  the  old  cathedral  town 
were  the  only  excitements  of  life.  Even  the  Castle  of  Ruther- 
ford, her  destined  home,  was  but  like  a  beautiful  dream,  associ- 
ated with  visions  of  the  mother  who  had  been  described  as  the 
most  lovely  and  perfect  of  earthly  beings,  and  the  ftither,  whose 
supposed  virtues  and  talents  formed  the  great  romance  of  her 
childhood. 

And  the  Earl  of  Rutherford,  if  judged  by  his  letters,  was 
indeed  forjued  to  excite  admiration,  if  not  respect.  Tiiey  were 
the  letters  of  a  refined,  highly  cultivated,  affectionate  mind ; — 
keenly  alive  to  the  charms  of  grace  and  luxury,  yet  mourning 
over  the  unreality  of  all  earthly  enjoyments  ;  joining  in  the 
pursuits  of  the  world,  yet  sighing  for  the  sympathy  of  the  few 
who  were  alone  deemed  worthy  of  fiiendshii) ;  and  seeing  too 
deeply  into  life  to  be  satisfied  with  aught  that  earth  could  give. 
One  thing  alone  seemed  to  give  him  real  pleasure,  the  hope  of 
returning  to  England  and  devoting  himself  to  his  child; — and 
yet  year  after  year  went  by,  and  still  he  lingered  in  a  foreign 
land.  Blanche  learned  by  degrees  to  attach  but  little  meaning 
to  his  expressions  of  dissatisflvction  with  continental  habits,  and 
of  desire  to  revisit  his  own  country.  He  might  be — no  doubt 
he  was — sincere ;  but  the  circumstances  or  the  feehngs  which 
detained  him  abroad  appeared  as  binding  as  ever ;  and  a  shade 
of  discontent  was  just  beginning  to  dim  the  brightness  of  her 
Litlierto  happy  life,  when  the  intelligence  that  her  father  was 
actually  on  his  way  to  England,  and  would  })robably  arrive  in 
the  course  of  a  few  weeks,  brought  back  all  her  early  enthusiasm 
and  delight.  Yet  the  satisfaction,  after  the  fii-st  moment,  w;ia 
by  no  means  unalloyed.     Her  own  departure  from  St.  Ebbe's 


14  THE    earl's    daughter. 

would  be  the  inevitable  consequence  of  the  eaiTs  return,  and 
with  this  w;is  involved  separation  from  the  friend  who  had  sup- 
plied a  mother's  place,  and  claimed  all  but  a  mother's  affection  ; 
and  ios  Blanche  recalled  the  fondness  which  had  been  lavished 
upon  her  from  infancy,  she  wept  in  bitterness  of  heart  for  the 
ingratitude  which  could  for  an  instant  rejoice  in  such  a  prospect. 

As  regarded  Eleanor,  the  case  would  be  very  different.  She 
was  to  return  to  her  parents  at  the  same  time,  and  the  near 
vicinity  of  the  rectory  and  the  castle  formed,  at  least  in  the 
simple  mind  of  Lady  Blanche,  a  reason  for  believing  that  the 
change  of  life  would  be  merely  nominal ;  that  they  would  share 
the  same  interests,  and  jiartake  of  the  same  pleasures,  and  be 
to  each  other,  what  they  had  hitherto  called  themselves, — sis- 
ters in  affection,  if  not  in  relationship. 

She  could  not  contemplate  the  possibility  of  change, — and 
the  fears  which  Eleanor  sometimes  expressed,  were  to  her 
merely  the  fancies  of  an  excitable,  over-anxious  mind. 

But,  as  the  season  approached  for  the  earPs  arrival,  the  strug- 
gle in  the  mind  of  Blanche  between  hope  and  regret — the 
future  and  the  past — became  mixed  with  other  thoughts,  which 
served  to  calm  her  spirits  by  diverting  her  feelings  into  a  differ- 
ent channel.  The  period  of  her  Confirmation  had  been  una- 
voidably fixed  for  the  time  when  Lord  Rutherford  was  ex- 
pected ;  and  though  Mrs.  Howard  would  at  first  willingly  have 
either  hastened  or  deferred  it,  so  as  to  give  a  more  favourable 
opportunity  for  due  preparation,  she  soon  saw  reason  to  be 
thankful  that  events  had  been  so  ordered  as  to  leave  no  possi- 
bility of  choice.  The  gay,  gentle,  confiding  spirit  of  Lady 
Blanche,  open  to  everj^  impression,  and  ajii^arcntly  incapable  of 
the  possibility  of  concealment,  yet  retained  within  it  a  depth 
of  retiectioii  and  principle  which  Mrs.  Howard  had  never  pene- 
trated. Unknown  to  herself,  Blanche  was  timid  and  reserved. 
She  could  speak  openly  upon  all  ordinary  subjects, — confess  her 
faults,  and  laugh  at  her  mistsikes,  and  lament  her  ignorance, 
till  even  a  very  keen  observer  of  human  nature — and  such  Mrs. 
Howard  was — might  imagine  that  she  had  told  all  that  was  in 
her  mind.  But  there  were  occasions  when  the  deepening  colour 
of  her  cheek,  or  the  hesitation  of  her  voice,  gave  indications 
that  in  the  hidden  world  within  there  lay  feelings  far  loftier  and 
purer  than  any  which  she  ventured  to  express.  Her  words 
were  the  words  of  a  humble,  candid,  light-hearted,  simple 
child ;  but  her  thoughts — who  may  tell  the  earnestness,  and 
reverence,  and  trustfulness,  with  which  the  young  heart  devotes 


THE     EARL     S      DAUGHTER.  15 

itself  to  its  Maker  before  the  evil  influence  of  tlie  world  has 
chilled  the  warmth  of  its  early  affections  ?  What  Lady  Blanche 
really  was,  Mrs.  Howard  never  knew,  till  in  the  intimacy  of 
serious  intercoui-se  which  preceded  her  Confirmation,  the  an- 
guish of  repentance  for  youthful  sins  overcame  her  natural 
reserve ;  and  hopes,  and  fears,  and  doubts,  and  the  bitter  con- 
flict of  the  soul,  which  all — even  the  most  outwardly  innocent 
— irflist  endure,  in  the  work  of  brino-ing  back  the  heart  to  God, 
were  confessed  without  a  thought  of  concealment.  From  that 
moment  the  tie  between  them  Wiis  one  which  earth  has  uo 
power  to  break. 

To  Blanche  this  newly-acquired  sympathy  was  an  unspeaka- 
ble blessing ;  it  soothed  her  in  the  moments  of  self-reproach, 
when  the  delight  of  her  fother's  anticipated  return  distracted 
her  thoughts  from  the  solemn  subject  of  her  approachmg  Con- 
firmation ;  and  enabled  her  to  view  clearly  the  life  which  was 
opening  before  her,  and  to  arrange  definite  plans  for  her  future 
conduct,  instead  of  doubling  and  vacillating  in  the  desire  of 
doing  everytliing,  and  the  dread  of  succeeding  in  nothing.  If 
Mrs.  Howard  had  been  dear  to  her  before,  as  her  truest  and  wisest 
friend,  her  mother's  chosen  representative,  much  more  was  she 
dear  now ;  and,  even  when  trembling  before  the  door  which 
was  to  admit  her  into  her  father's  presence,  a  sudden  pang  of 
sorrow  shot  through  her  heart  as  she  caught  the  tones  of  Mrs. 
Howard's  voice,  and  thought  how  soon  she  might  listen  for 
them  in  vain.  Mrs.  Howard  herself  opened  the  door  as  Blanche 
placed  her  hand  upon  the  lock.  She  did  not  speak ;  but  her 
silent  kiss  told  more  than  the  most  eloquent  words  ;  and,  as 
she  walked  slowly  away,  l^lanche  allowed  herself  to  hesitate  no 
longer,  and  entered  the  room.  The  earl  was  standing  by  the 
window — his  eye  fixed  upon  the  travelling-carriage  which  had 
brought  him  that  evening  ft'ora  London  ;  but  his  thoughts  wan- 
dering to  yoars,  now  so  long  passed  away,  that  they  seemed  but 
as  indistinct,  yet  painful,  visions.  He  was  recalling  the  day 
when,  in  the  company  of  his  wife,  he  had  pftid  his  first  visit  to 
St.  Ebbe's ;  and  the  associations  awakened  by  the  remembrance 
were  so  absorbing,  that  the  sound  of  his  daughter's  footsteps 
was  unheeded.  Blanche  remained  irresolute — afraid  to  intrude 
herself  upon  him,  yet  taint  from  the  effort  to  restrain  her  agita- 
tion. A  ft^w  moments  elapsed,  but  to  her  they  seemed  like 
hours ;  and  then  the  carriage  drove  off",  and  the  earl,  heaving  a 
dci'p  sigh,  turned  suddenly  around,  and  became  aware  that  he 
Ras  nut  alone. 


10  THE      E  A  K  L  '  S      DAUGHTER. 

It  was  a  strano-e  meeting !  lie  did  not  move  or  smile  ;  but 
tlie  colour  forsook  liis  cheeks,  and  his  lips  quivered  ;  and  as 
l^lanche  drew  near,  he  gazed  upon  her  steadfastly,  and  sinking 
into  a  chair,  the  name  of  his  wife  escaped  his  lips.  Blanche 
stood  before  him  motionless.  The  earl's  head  was  averted  as 
if  he  dreaded  to  look  again ;  but,  when  at  length  the  simple 
word,  "Papa,'"  fell  upc^n  his  ear,  he  started,  passed  his  hand 
across  his  forehead  like  one  awakening  from  a  dream,  and, 
chisping  his  child  to  his  heart,  he  blessed  her  fervently,  and 
poured  forth  the  fulness  of  his  contentment;  and,  at  that  mo- 
ment, the  fondest  hope  of  affection  which  Blanche  had  ever 
ventured  to  indulge  appeared  about  to  be  fully  realized. 

"  My  visit,  to-night,  must  be  but  short,  my  child,"  said  the 
earl,  when  the  excitement  of  feeling  had  in  a  measure  subsided, 
and  Blanche  ventured  to  inquire  how  long  he  could  stay  with 
her.  "  I  have  business  in  the  town,  and  must  leave  you  almost 
immediately;  but  to-morrow  we  will  start  early,  and  reach 
liutherford  in  time  for  you  to  see  it  in  its  beauty." 

"And  for  the  first  time,"  said  Blanche:  "it  seemed  hard, 
papa,  never  to  have  been  allowed  to  go  there  before  ;  but  I  am 
glad  of  it  now.     I  would  much  rather  see  it  first  with  you." 

The  earl  smiled. 

"  And  with  Miss  Went  worth  ?  We  are  to  take  her  with  us, 
I  believe." 

"  Will  you  really  ?"  and  Blanche's  eye  sparkled  with  delight. 
"  We  hoped  it  might  be  so ;  but  Dr.  Wentworth  was  afiraid 
you  might  not  like  it." 

"  Shall  you  like  it  ? — that  is  the  question,  Blanche." 

Lord  Itutherford  spoke  shortly,  and  Blanche  was  a  little 
awed. 

"  I  shall  like  everything  that  you  like,  dear  papa,"  she  said  ; 
"  and  Eleanor  and  I  have  not  set  our  hearts  upon  it." 

"  But  you  would  prefer  it,  my  love ;  only  say  so,  and  it 
shall  be." 

_  Blanche  had  penetration  enough  to  see  that  her  fother  really 
wished  her  to  choose ;  and,  as  she  warmly  expressed  her  plea- 
sure at  the  proposal,  the  earl's  gentleness  of  manner  returned. 

"  My  engagement  is  pressing,"  he  said',  as  he  rose  to  depart, 
whilst  Blanche  hung  upon  his  arm,  "  and  a  night's  rest  will  be 
desirable  for  us  both  ;  but  we  will  meet  at  eight  to-morrow,  if, 
as  Mrs.  Howard  assures  me,  you  are  quite  prepared  for  such  a 
«uddeu  move." 

The  mention  of  Mrs.  Upward  brought  back  Blanclie's  sad 
thoughts. 


THE       earl's      DAUGHTER.  11 

"  You  w  ill  let  her  come  and  see  me  sometimes,  deai  papa, 
fvoii't  you  ?"  she  said,  timidly. 

"  Let  her  come  J"  replied  the  earl ;  "  rather,  ask  her  if  she 
will  be  kind  enough  to  take  the  trouble  :  she  may  not  think  as 
little  of  a  long  journey  as  you  do." 

Blanche-fooked  grave  ;  for  she  could  not  bear,  even  in  jest, 
the  idea  of  any  obstacle  to  a  continued  intercourse  with  her  best 
frieiid.  The  earl  no  sooner  perceived  it,  than  he  began  to  assure 
her  that  if  the  distance  were  ten  times  as  great,  it  should  not 
interfere.  She  need  not  have  a  thought  upon  the  subject ;  and 
if  Blanche  had  not  hei-self  stopped  him,  he  would  have  insisted 
upon  seeing  Mrs.  Howard  again  at  once,  and  inducing  her  to 
name  a  certain  time  for  a  visit  to  Kutherford. 

Blanche  scarcely  understood  this  instantaneous  attention  to 
her  wishes.  Mi-s.  Howard's  object  had  been  to  guard  her  against 
the  peculiar  dangers  of  her  position  in  life,  by  accustoming  her 
to  yield  her  own  will  even  on  the  most  trifling  occasions.  She 
often  saw  others  preferred  before  her,  and  her  natural  disposi- 
tion led  her  to  obey  rather  than  to  command  ;  and  this,  tdded 
to  the  influence  of  Eleanor  Wentworth's  apparent  decision  of 
character,  made  her  insensible  to  her  own  powers.  Perhaps  too 
much  so ;  Mrs.  Howard  at  least  began  to  fear  lest,  in  fostering 
gentleness  and  consideration,  she  had  kept  her  too  much  in 
ignorance  of  the  influence  which  her  rank  and  fortune  would 
naturally  give  her ;  and  lest  the  sudden  consciousness  of 
superiority  might  prove  more  injurious  to  her  character  than  if 
she  had  been  accustomed  to  it  from  childhood.  But  it  was  too 
late  to  remedy  the  mistake.  Blanche  was  about  to  enter  upon 
the  world,  unknowing  of  its  snares,  and  guarded  only  by  the 
simple  piety  of  a  humble  spirit,  which  has  learned  to  distrust 
itselt^  and  to  lean  only  upon  God.  As  she  was  then,  there  was 
nothing  to  fear  ;  but  how  long  her  simplicity  would  remain 
untainted,  her  heart  uncorrupted  by  the  flattering  homage 
which  awaited  her,  was  a  question  which  only  the  most  im- 
hesitating  faitlj  could  have  bjrne  to  ask. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Mrs.  Howard  sat  in  her  dressing-room  that  evening  long 
after  her  usual  hour  of  rest.  She  was  too  anxious,  her  mind  w^as  too 
preoccupied,  to  hope  for  sleep.  She  could  only  think  over  the  past, 


18  THE      earl's      daughter. 

ami  pray  for  the  future ;  whilst  she  dwelt  upon  the  dispositions 
of  her  two  young  charges,  and  the  trials  to  which  they  might 
bo  exposed  in  their  journey  through  life. 

It  would  have  been  difficult  to  tell  which  excited  the  greater 
interest ;  perhaps  the  one  for  whom  she  feared  the  most  seemed 
then  the  nearer  to  her  heart ;  yet  Eleanor  Wentworth's  charactet 
was,  in  itself,  much  more  open  to  temptation  than  that  of  Lady 
lUanche.  Nothing  but  the  certainty  that,  at  the  rectory  of 
llutherford,  Eleanor  would  be  as  carefully  guarded  from  evil  as 
at  the  manor-house  of  St.  Ebbe's,  would  have  relieved  the  load 
of  apprehension  which  pressed  upon  Mrs.  Howard's  spirits  as 
.'^Iie  thought  upon  the  fickleness  of  purpose,  the  pride  and 
jealousy,  the  hasty,  though  generous  temper,  which  were  con- 
tinually marring  the  influence  of  her  talents  and  high  principles. 

But  Eleanor  was  not,  like  Blanche,  to  return  to  a  home 
where  she  would  be  the  cherished  idol  of  every  heart.  She 
would  be  loved,  indeed,  deeply  and  tenderly  ;  but  it  would  be 
with  a  Christian  love,  which  would  watch  over  her  faults,  and 
toll  her  truth  without  reserve.  She  would  have  quiet  occupa- 
tions ;  duties  to  her  parents  and  her  sister ;  duties  in  her  father's 
parish  ;  amusements  in  her  garden  and  her  books  ;  and  society 
in  the  castle  and  its  neighbourhood. 

Mrs.  Howard  almost  smiled  at  the  feeling  of  dread  which  she 
had  allowed  to  disturb  her,  as  she  owned  to  herself  that 
P^leanor's  situation  in  life  seemed  peculiarly  free  from  tempta- 
tion ;  whilst,  again,  she  sadly  reverted  to  Blanche — noble, 
beautiful,  and  rich,  but  deprived  of  a  mother's  care,  and  with 
no  one  to  be  her  daily  guide  and  counsellor,  but  the  father, 
who  there  was  reason  to  fear  might  be  little  fitted  for  such  au 
office. 

The  position  was  undoubtedly  one  of  peril,  and  self-accusa- 
tions mingled  with  Mrs.  Howard's  forebodings.  Memory  went 
back  to  the  hour  when,  as  an  innocent,  unconscious  infant,  the 
child  of  her  early  friend  had  been  committed  to  her  care  ;  when, 
after  the  lapse  of  but  a  few  weeks  from  the  death  of  the 
Countess  of  iiutherford,  the  earl  had  placed  his  daughter  in  her 
arms,  and  bade  her  love  and  guard  her  for  her  mother's  sake. 
To  love  her  was  indeed  easy  ;  but  to  guard,  to  teach,  to  educate 
her — how  had  the  task  been  performed  ?  It  was  a  sad  array 
of  errors  and  neglects,  which  conscience  brought  before  the 
mind  of  one  whom  the  world  rightly  judged  to  have  discharged 
licr  duty  faithfully  and  unshrinkingly  ;  so  much  seemed  to 
have  been  left  unsaid,  undone ;  so  much  higher  an  example 


THE      earl's      daughter.  19 

might  have  been  set ;  so  many  warnings  and  instructions  given. 
As  the  painful  reflections  crowded  upon  her  mind,  a  gentle  tap 
at  the  door  was  heard,  and  Blanche  entered  the  room.  She  was 
looking  pale  and  ill,  and  her  eyes  were  dimmed  Mith  tears  ;  and 
Mi-s.  Howard,  startled  at  her  sudden  appearance,  inquired,  in 
alarm,  the  cause.  Blanche  tried  to  smile,  whilst  she  assured 
her  th^t  it  was  merely  a  whim — a  freak; — she  was  restless,  and 
could  not  sleep,  and  the  light  was  shining  underneath  the 
dressing-room  door ;  and — but  her  voice  failed  her,  and  hiding 
her  face  upon  Mrs.  lloward's  neck,  she  said,  "  To-morrow  I — 1 
cannot  leave  you." 

"  It  will  not  be  leaving  me,  my  dearest  child,"  replied  Mrs. 
Howard.  "  We  shall  still  be  one  in  affection,  and  your  father 
promises  Hiat  we  shall  meet  frequently." 

"  But  that  will  not  make  tilings  as  they  have  been,"  replied 
Blanche.  "  I  shall  only  have  you  for  a  short  time,  and  I  shall 
want  you  every  hour  in  the  day." 

"  Perhaps  that  is  the  very  reason  why  it  is  good  for  me  not 
to  be  with  you,"  said  Mrs^  Howard ;  "  we  must  not  depend  too 
much  upon  our  fellow-creatures,  however  we  may  love  them." 

"  If  I  were  not  so  ignorant,"  said  Blanche,  "  and  if  I  knew 
what  sort  of  life  I  was  going  to  lead,  it  would  not  seem  so  bad  ; 
but  seeing  papa  has  upset  all  my  ideas.  I  don't  mean  that  he 
is  different  exactly  in  appearance  from  what  I  thought,  but  his 
manner  is.  He  put  me  forward  when  I  talked  to  him,  and 
seemed  to  make  me  settle  things  ;  and  I  would  much  rather  he 
would  not." 

"  You  wi'.l  be  used  to  that  in  time,  my  love,"  replied  Mrs. 
Howard,  smiling ;  "  and  you  must  recollect  you  are  no  longer 
a  child." 

"  No,  indeed,"  exclaimed  Blanche,  "  after  to-day  I  could  not 
be ;  but  that,  again,  makes  me  unhappy.  How  shall  I  know 
what  is  right  or  wrong  in  trifles  ?  I  cannot  ask  papa ; — at  least 
I  think  I  cannot ;— and  I  may  decide  badly,  and  do  what  I 
ought  not;  anci  perhaps  all  my  resolutions  may  fail.  You 
know  it  is  so  soraetiuies,  when  people  have  felt  a  great  deal 
more  than  I  have." 

"  You  can  ap[)ly  to  me  always,"  replied  Mrs.  Howard,  "  in 
cases  in  which  you  really  have  no  one  else  to  consult ;  but  it  is 
not  advice  whicli  can  keep  you  riglit." 

"  No,"  said  Blanche ;  "*'  but  if — if  I  should  grow  careless,  and 
not  pray  properly — " 

"  Fear  fi)r  yourself,  my  love,"  replied  Mrs.  Howard,  "  and 


20  THE    earl's    daughter. 

then  Tio  otlier  friend  need  fear  for  you  ;  but  if  jou  can  attend 
carefully  to  the  few  rules  I  gave  you  the  otlier  day,  I  think  you 
will  lind  your  duties  less  difficult  than  you  imagine." 

"  I  always  now  have  some  time  to  myself  in  the  middle 
of  the  day,"  said  Blanche  ;  "  but  here  I  can  do  as  I  choose." 

"  And  you  will  do  as  you  choose  at  home,  my  dear,"  replied 
Mrs.  Howard.  "  I  have  no  doubt  of  it.  The  best  thing, 
however,  to  say  to  yourself,  is  :  not  that  you  will,  if  you  can,  but 
that  you  must ; — that  everything  must,  to  a  certain  degree, 
give  way  to  it;  that  if  you  cannot  be  alone  at  one  hour,  you 
will  be  at  another.  We  require  not  long  prayers  but  frequent 
ones,  to  keep  up  our  watchfulness." 

"  And  then  self-examination,"  said  Blanche ;  "  it  is  so 
difficult." 

"  Yes,  most  difficult ;  and  the  only  way  to  make  it  easy  is  to 
])ractise  it  frequeutl}' ;  to  carry  it  on  from  one  part  of  the  day 
to  another,  at  the  times  we  fix  for  our  private  devotions." 

"  The  difficulty  to  me,"  said  Blanche,  "  is,  that  all  this  makes 
one  think  so  constantly  of  oneself !" 

"  So  it  may,  at  first ;  but  the  mind  must  be  educated  like 
the  body.  How  is  it  for  instance,  that  you  are  able  to  walk 
without  stumbling?  If  you  are  in  a  dangerous  road,  you 
observe  where  you  are  going ;  but,  generally  speaking,  you  are 
kept  in  safety,  not  by  thinking  of  yourself,  but  of  the  objects 
around  you." 

"  That  is  what  I  want  to  do  with  my  mind,"  said  Blanche. 

"  And  it  will  come  by-and-by,  my  love ;  but  you  must  be 
contented  to  walk  carefully  in  the  dangerous  road  first ;  and, 
after  a  time,  you  will  find  yourself  instinctively  shrinking  from 
e.il  and  able  to  pursue  the  right  path — not  so  much  by 
watching  yourself  as  by  keeping  your  heart  fixed  upon  God." 

"  It  will  be  very  long  before  that  time  comes,"  said  Blanche. 

"  Yes,  because  it  is  the  perfection  of  a  Christian  life  ;  but  we 
must  be  patient.  In  your  case,  I  confess  it  is  likely  to  be 
particularly  difficult,  because  you  will  Lave  so  many  tempta- 
tions." 

"  Xot  more  than  others,  I  suppase,"  said  Blanche  ;  "  and 
yet  it  seems  that  1  shall  never  be  as  good  as  some  whom  I  have 
read  of." 

"  But  I  am  afraid  you  will  have  many  more  temptationa 
than  people  in  general,"  continued  Mrs.  Howard :  "  and  I 
should  be  happier  if  I  felt  that  you  understood  this.  God  has 
given  you  rank  and  woallh,  and  no  one  in  your  honT^*  ^^  ■sharo 


THE    earl's    daughter.  21 

tlie  attention  which  will  be  paid  you  ;  and  your  papa  is  verv 
likely  to  be  over-indulgent  and  blind  to  your  faults." 

Blanche  leant  her  head  upon  the  mantelpiece,  and  in  a  low 
voice  said,  "  You  will  pray  for  me." 

"  Pray  fo*-  you  daily  and  hourly,"  replied  Mrs.  Howard, 
earnestly.  "  God  only  knows  how  precious  you  are  to  me. 
Perhjijjs  I  am  over-anxious  ;  but  luxury  and  tlatteiy  are  very 
insidious." 

"  I  need  not  indulge  myself  in  luxuries,  even  if  I  possess 
them,"  said  Blanche. 

"  No ;  though  I  am  afraid  the  temjitation  will  be  greater 
than  you  are  aware  of.  If  3-our  mind  is  corrupted,  dearest 
Blanche,  the  commencement  will  almost  inevitably  be  self- 
indulgence  in  trifles." 

"  I  don't  think  I  quite  know  what  you  would  call  trifles," 
said  Blanche. 

"  Such  as  a  little  indolence  in  rising,"  rejjlied  Mrs.  Howard ; 
"  a  little  waste  of  time  in  light  reading  ;  a  slight  carelessness 
in  conversation,  saying  things  which  are  not  strictly  I'ight  foi 
the  sake  of  amusement ;  or  spending  money  thoughtlessly ;  oi 
even  consulting  your  own  ease  by  making  yourself  too  comfort- 
able, and  so  rendering  yourself  indisposed  to  exertion  for  other 
people.  All  the^e  things  are  considered  allowable  by  the 
world :  you  may  do  them,  and  no  one  will  notice  them ;  and 
your  conscience  may,  perhaps,  scarcely  reproach  you  for  them  ; 
but  they  arc  the  beginnings  of  evil — the  first  steps  towards 
that  love  of  self-gratification  which  is  the  peculiar  snare  of  the 
rich." 

''  I  like  ease  and  comfort  now,"  said  Blanclie. 

"  I  think  you  do,  my  love,"  replied  Mi-s.  Howard ;  '•  and  I  am 
not  saying  that  the  liking  them  is  wrong,  but  dangerous ;  and 
against  the  danger  I  know  only  one  safeguard,  as  far  as  our 
own  endeavours  are  concerned,  There  are  times,  you  know, 
■when  we  are  bound  to  deny  ourselves  the  use  even  of  lawful 
pleasures ; — one  day  at  least  in  every  week  we  should  do  so. 
If  we  check  our  inclinations  then,  we  may  hope  they  will  not 
gain  the  mastery  over  us  at  other  times." 

"  I  shall  not  know  what  to  do  when  I  am  at  home,"  nxv] 
Blanche. 

"  And  I  cannot  tell  you  exactly,"  replied  Mrs.  Howard  ; 
"  because,  of  course,  you  must  be  governed  in  a  great  degree  by 
the  habits  of  your  father's  house.  Onlv  when  we  have  deter- 
niiued  to  do  something,  half  our  difficulty  is  over.     A  sincere 


22  THE      EARLS      DAUGHTER. 

will  must  soon  find  out  the  way,  without  being  singular  oi 
acting  in  any  way  to  attract  notice." 

"  13ut  I  wish  so  much — so  very,  very  much — that  I  could 
have  some  rules,"  said  Blanche. 

Mrs.  Howard  halt-smiled  as  she  kissed  her,  and  said,—"  And 
I  wish  so  very  much  that  I  could  give  them,  because  I  know  it 
would  make  3'ou  happier ;  but  I  can  only  repeat  in  a  general 
way  what  I  have  said  to  you  before ;  little  details  must  be  left  to 
yourself:  it  is  impossible  to  shake  off  the  burden  of  responsibility, 
JJlanche,  though  I  know  you  would  willingly  do  it  if  you  could." 

"  But  if  1  make  my  rules  and  keep  to  them,"  said  Blanche, 
"  still  I  may  attend  to  them  only  as  a  matter  of  form,  and  then 
they  will  be  of  no  use." 

Mrs.  Iloward  was  silent  for  a  few  moments ;  the  most 
earnest-minded  often  feel  bitterly  the  contrast  between  the 
advice  which  they  give  to  others,  and  the  practice  which  they 
are  conscious  of  in  themselves. 

"  It  is  very  hard,"  she  said,  at  length,  "  to  feel,  even  in  a 
remote  degree,  as  we  ought ;  but,  dearest  Blanche,  if  you  follow 
the  plan  you  have  had  marked  out  for  these  days ; — begin 
them,  for  instance,  earlier  than  usual,  if  jjossible,  and  give  up 
your  first  thoughts  to  self-examination  and  meditation  upon 
those  chapters  in  the  Gospels  which  describe  our  Lord's  suffer- 
ings ;  using  special  solemn  confessions,  and  also  arranging  your 
prayers  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  with  a  particular  view  to  these 
subjects  of  meditation  ; — I  think  you  will  scarcely  fail  to  hav? 
some  deeper  gratitude — some  more  sincere  penitence ;  you  will 
at  least  feel  that  the  day  is  not  like  other  days." 

"  I  will  try,"  said  Blanche ;  but  she  sighed  as  if  distrusting  herself. 

"  And  you  must  hope,  too,"  continued  Mrs.  Howard  ;  "  hope 
is  a  great  instrument  of  good  with  us  all.  The  work  of  a 
Christian  is  the  work  of  a  whole  life,  and  we  must  not  despair 
because  we  are  not  perfect  at  once  ;  especially  when  we  have 
such  aid  promised  and  given.  In  a  very  short  time,  my  love,  you 
will,  I  trust,  be  fully  admitted  into  the  communion  of  the  Church." 

Blanche  looked  distressed,  and  for  a  few  moments  did  not 
attempt  to  speak  :  at  last  she  said,  "  I  thought  you  would  have 
been  with  me.'' 

"  And  I  thought  so  too,  and  hoped  more  earnestly  than  I 
can  say  ;  but  it  has  been  otherwise  ordered,  and  it  may — it 
must  be  better  for  us  both.  Yet  we  cannot  really  be  separated ; 
my  prayers  and  my  heart  will  follow  you,  and  we  shall  surely 
be  united  in  one  spirit  as  members  of  the  body  of  Christ — mora 
closely  even  than  at  this  moment.'* 


THE    earl's    daughter.  23 

Aif;iin  there  was  a  pause  ;  the  struggle  of  ovc-r-oxcited  feel- 
in<i^  o\ercame  Blanche's  efforts  to  restrain  them,  and  bursting 
into  tears,  she  exclaimed,  "  I  am  not  worthy." 

"  No,"  replied  Mrs.  Howard,  and  she  placed  her  hand  fondly 
on  Blanche's^liead,  "you  are  not  worthy ;  no  one  can  be,  not 
even  an  angel  from  heaven.  But  if  the  blessing  is  greater  than 
words>;an  tell,  so  also  is  the  love.  Blanche,  it  is  a  Father's 
voice  which  calls  you  ;  perhaps  now,  for  the  first  time,  you  can 
undei-stand  what  a  father's  affection  must  mean."  The  allusion 
had  the  effect  which  Mrs.  Howard  desired. 

Blanche  raised  her  head,  and  a  smile  gleamed  through  her 
tears  as  she  said,  "I  will  try  to  think  of  it,  and  not  be  afraid." 

"  And  you  will  be  assisted  and  accepted,  dearest ;  you  must 
not  doubt  it.  There  is  much  that  I  could  say  to  you  even  now 
upon  the  subject,  though  we  have  so  often  talked  of  it  before  ; 
but  I  do  not  think  you  will  allow  anything  to  interfere  with 
such  a  duty.  I  do  not  think  you  will  ever  make  fJUse  excuses, 
or  turn  away  with  coldness,  whatever  examples  may  be  set  you. 
In  time,"  and  Mrs.  Howard's  voice  involuntarily  became  more 
subdued  in  its  earnestness,  "you  will  cease  to  look  upon  it  as  a 
duty — it  will  be  your  all  in  religion." 

"  Papa  will  be  with  me  to  help  me,  and  teach  me,"  said 
Blanche  ;  "  tliat  is  one  great  comfort." 

Mrs.  Howard  sighed,  and  made  no  direct  answer  ;  but  rising 
from  her  seat,  unlocked  a  cabinet,  and  taking  from  it  a  locket 
attached  to  a  hair  chain,  she  hung  it  round  Blanche's  neck, 
saying,  "  Will  you  wear  it,  not  only  in  remembrance  of  me,  but 
of  thfc  day  on  which  it  was  given  you  ?  The  date  has  been 
engraved  on  it,  that  when  you  look  at  it  you  may  be  reminded 
of  the  vow  by  which  you  have  bound  yourself. — And  now,  dear 
child,  we  must  part." 

Mrs.  Howard's  usually  calm  voice  became  low  and  tremulous. 
Blanche  held  the  locket  in  her  hand,  and  gazed  on  it  long  and 
tearfully,  and  then,  placing  it  within  the  folds  of  her  dress,  she 
once  more  received  Mrs.  Howard's  fervent  blessing,  and  glided 
Bik-ntly  from  the  room. 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  sun  was  still  high  in  the  horizon,  when  on  the  following 
day  a  travellintr  carriage  was  seen  standing  at  the  bottom  of  the 
2^ 


24  THE      E  A  K  L    S     D  A  U  G  II  TEH. 

steep  ascent  on  the  summit  of  which  was  built  the  old  baronial 
castle  of  Rutherfiard.  There  was  apparently  some  discussion  as 
to  its  movements,  for  a  servant  was  engaged  in  carrying  mes- 
sages from  his  master  to  the  postilions,  and  the  eager  tones  of 
a  young  girl's  voice  were  heard  endeavouring  to  win  some  com- 
jiliance  with  her  wishes  contrary  to  the  will  of  her  companions. 

"  It  will  be  a  pleasure  to  me  to  walk,  I  assure  you,"  she 
said ;  "  the  distance  is  but  a  few  hundred  yards,  and  really  I 
deserve  some  trouble  for  having  been  so  foolish  as  not  to  watch 
which  way  the  carriage  turned.  It  will  make  a  considerable 
difference  now  to  go  by  the  road." 

Lord  Rutherford  listened  politely,  and  quietly  remarking  that 
Miss  Wentworth  was  under  his  protection,  and  that  he  could  on 
no  account  leave  her  till  he  Jiad  seen  her  safely  under  her 
father's  care,  sent  an  angry  reproof  to  the  postilions  for  their 
stupidity,  and  ordered  them  to  drive  round  to  the  rectory. 
Eleanor  looked  annoyed,  and  Blanche  raised  her  eyes  to  her 
father's  face,  to  see  if  it  would  do  to  interfere ;  but  there  was  an 
expression  in  it  which  was  not  encouraging.  The  cheerful 
smile  which  had  brightened  it  during  the  first  part  of  their 
journey  was  gone,  and,  leaning  out  of  the  window,  he  kept  his 
eyes  riveted  upon  the  old  grey  walls  appearing  in  the  distance 
above  the  trees. 

"My  father!"  exclaimed  Eleanor,  as  the  carriage  turned. 

Lord  Rutherford  withdrew  his  head,  and  sank  back  upon  his 
seat.  His  mouth  grew  more  stern,  his  brow  was  more  gloomy 
than  before ;  yet  it  might  have  been  only  from  the  effort  to 
repress  some  rising  agitation,  for,  as  Dr.  Wentworth  approached, 
a  smile  of  recognition  again  lighted  up  his  features,  and  with  a 
cordial  voice,  and  a  warm  pressure  of  the  hand,  he  returned  a 
greeting  which  might  have  been  termed  affectionate. 

"  I  have  much  to  thank  you  for,"  he  said  ;  "  but  you  shall 
not  be  detained  now  :  we  have  a  fellow-feeling  for  our  children." 

Dr.  Wentworth's  mild  but  strikingly  sensible  countenance 
betrayed  some  painful  thoughts,  even  as  he  assisted  his  daughter 
to  alight,  and  welcomed  her  eagerly  ;  but  they  were  momentary 
only,  and  again  drawing  near  the  carriage,  he  said,  "  Lady 
Blanche  is  almost  a  stranger  ;  we  have  not  met  I  think  for  two 
years." 

Blanche  bent  forward  and  gave  him  her  hand.  Lord 
Rutherford  was  evidently  interested  in  watching  the  meeting, 
yet  he  looked  annoyed  rather  than  pleased  with  Dr.  Went- 
worth's kind  expressions  of  satisfaction. 


THE    earl's    daughter.  25 

"I  am  not  ]»arting  from  Eleanor,"  said  131ancho,  in  answer  to 
Dr.  Wentwortirs  rog-ret  that  his  daughter's  return  home  should 
be  necessarily  alloyed  by  a  separation  from  her  friend.  "  I  wish 
you  would  not  talk  of  it :  we  shall  meet,  as  we  have  done, 
every  day."  .>. 

Dr.  Wentworth  smiled  doubtfully. 

"  Tjj-morrow  Eleanor  will  be  with  me  the  first  moment  she 
can  be  spared,"  continued  Blanche,  gaily  ;  "  and  if  that  should 
not  be  early,  I  must  be  with  her,  and  then  we  will  arrange  for 
the  future." 

There  was  a  silent  assent,  and  Eleanor,  who  had  been  stand- 
ing apart,  went  round  to  the  other  side  ^f  the  carriage  to  say 
good-b'ye. 

"  It  is  good-b'ye,  really, — for  long,  fcr  ever  in  some  ways, 
Blanche,"  she  whispered. 

Blanche  was  distressed. 

"  Eleanor,  it  is  cruel  to  say  so ;  but  time  will  show." 

"  Yes,  time  will  show ;"  and,  trying  to  appear  indifterent, 
Eleanor  once  more  said,  "good-b'ye,"  and,  putting  her  arm 
within  her  father's,  turned  away. 

Blanche  watched  them,  as  they  stayed  to  give  some  direc- 
tions to  a  man  who  was  to  follow  with  the  luggage  ;  and,  when 
at  last  they  -were  lost  to  her  sight,  felt  as  if  Eleanor's  words 
were  prophetic. 

But  the  painful  foreboding  was  soon  forgotten.  The  earl's 
voice  recalled  her  to  happiness ;  for,  delighted  at  being'  fi-eed 
from  all  restraint,  he  now  gave  free  vent  to  his  affection,  and 
pointing  to  the  range  of  richly-wooded  hills,  the  green  meadows, 
and  neat  clustering  cottages,  he  told  her  that  all  she  could  see 
was  her  own  ;  that  earth  fur  him  had  but  one  treasure ;  and  that, 
whilst  she  was  spared  to  him,  nothing  would  add  to  his  enjoy- 
ment, except  by  ministering  to  hers. 

"  Xow,"  he  said,  when  the  winding  road  brought  them  full 
in  front  of  the  castle,  "look,  once  more;  there  is  no  view  of  it 
hke  this." 

Blanche  looked,  and  her  heart  throbbed  within  her  as  sho 
realized  for  the  first  time  the  grandeur  of  her  future  home. 
Rutherford  Castle  stood  upon  a  high  promontory,  which  rose 
almost  perpendicularly  from  the  banks  of  a  deep-flowing  stream. 
The  most  ancient  part  of  what  had  once  been  a  fortress  of  con- 
siderable strength  was  built  upon  the  solid  rock,  and  the  huge 
Ijlocks  of  masonry  could  scarcely  be  distinguished  from  the 
impregnable  walls  of  nature's  formation  :  but  the   advance  of 


'J()  THE      KARL    S      DAUGHIER 

civilization  had  induced  the  Lords  of  Rutherford,  from  time  to 
time,  to  add  to  the  original  stronghold,  at  first  a  lower  tower 
and  massive  wings,  then  gateways,  and  turrets,  and  quadrangles, 
till  the  castle,  stretching  over  the  crest  of  the  hill,  formed  a  pile 
of  building  which,  although  irregular  in  outline,  was  still  as  a 
whole  singularl}'  imposing.  Immediately  in  front  of  the  castle 
was  a  broad  space  of  smooth  turf,  and  from  this  the  ground  to 
the  left  fell  in  a  bank  thickly  planted  with  trees,  which,  as  it 
neared  the  river,  was  broken  by  grey  moss-grown  rocks.  But 
the  most  striking  points  of  scenery  were  not  discoverable  from 
below ;  and  when  iJIanche  clasped  her  hands  in  ecstasy,  and 
declared  that  she  had  never  imagined  anything  half  &o  beau- 
tiful, the  earl  smiled  cuntent'Klly,  and,  bidding  the  postilions 
hasten,  he  sat  in  silence  listening  to  her  exclamations,  as  every 
step  in  advance  brought  them  some  fresh  object  of  beautj*. 

The  high  battlemented  gateway  was  passed,  and  the  carriage 
entered  the  park  ;  and,  after  a  drive  of  about  half  a  mile,  slowly 
ascended  the  hill.  As  they  apjiroached  nearer  and  nearer  to 
the  castle.  Lord  Rutherford  roused  himself  from  his  leaning 
posture,  and  gazing  from  the  window,  seemed  endeavouring  to 
recall  the  long-past  scenes  which  were  associated  with  nearly 
every  object  that  met  his  eye.  Blanche,  with  an  instinctive 
delicacy  of  sympathy,  did  not  attemjit  to  interrupt  him :  her 
ple.-xsure  was  no  longer  openly  expressed,  and  it  was  not  till  the 
carriage  stopped  before  the  heavy  portal,  and  a  glorious  land- 
scape, with  a  foreground  of  rock  and  river,  and  a  distance  of 
fur-spreading  woods  and  pastures,  and  fields  ripening  with  the 
golden  corn,  was  disclosed  before  her,  that  she  exclaimed,  "  Papa, 
it  does  not  seem  like  earth !" 

At  the  sound  of  her  sweet  voice,  the  earl  awoke  fi'om  his 
reverie.  "I*.«hall  be  paradise  to  you,"  he  said,  "if  mortal 
})0wer  can  make  it  so  ;"  and,  alighting  from  the  carriage,  he 
hurried  her  forward  into  the  hall. 

The  servants  were  assembled  to  receive  them  ;  and  the  earl 
presented  Lady  Blanche  to  them  as  their  mistress.  "  Your 
mistress  now,"  he  said  emphatically,  "  as  much  as  she  must  be 
in  years  to  come  ;"  and  as  he  spoke  many  eves  of  admiration 
and  respect  were  turned  to  the  gentle  girl,  who  so  gracefully  and 
meekl\-  returned  the  reverential  salutations  of  her  dependants. 

Lord  Rutherford's  impatience  scarcely  waited  till  the  neces- 
sary introduction  was  over.  Proudly  and  firmly  he  passed  on 
through  the  splendid  apartments  ;  yet,  if  Blanche  had  watched 
his  countenance,  she  might  have  seen   that  all  was  not  equally 


THE      earl's      daughter.  27 

firm  within.  It  was  but  the  outline  of  a  marble  bust  wliich 
saui^ht  his  attention^  but  he  quickened  his  steps,  and  compressed 
his  lips,  whilst  he  turned  to  see  whether  the  bright  Mr  features 
of  his  child  did  indeed  resemble  the  cold  but  matchless  beauty 
which  the  hartid  of  art  had  so  exquisitely  sculptured. 

Blanche  followed  him,  bewildered  by  the  novelty  of  her  situ- 
A^ion,^nd  the  strangeness  of  all  she  saw  ;  so  different  from 
St.  Ebbe's,  with  its  few  simple  rooms  and  modern  furniture. 
The  dark  oaken  paneUings  and  grotesque  car\Tngs,  the  rich  yet 
cumbrous  cabinets,  the  heavy  gilded  cornices,  and  faded  tapes- 
tries, were  of  the  fashions  of  centuries  past :  and  Blanche,  though 
delighted  to  behold  what  she  had  so  often  in  imagination  pic- 
tured, yet  felt  something  of  awe  steal  over  her,  as  they  traversed 
the  em])ty  chambers  which  for  years  had  been  disused  ;  and 
which,  even  when  the  castle  was  filled  with  guests,  had  'jeen 
considered  more  as  a  necessary  incumbrance  than  as  at  all  con- 
ducing to  its  convenience. 

Lord  Rutherford  read  what  was  passing  in  her  mind. 

"  These  are  but  the  vestibules,"  he  said  ;  "  the  ante-rooms — 
endurable  for  appearance,  but  not  habitable.  You  shall  have 
something  different  for  your  ovra  enjoyment ;"  and,  pushing 
aside  some  massive  folding  doors,  he  led  the  way  into  a  hall  paved 
\\'ith  marble,'  and  partly  filled  with  rare  plants.  '"  They  have 
attended  to  my  orders  well,"  he  observed,  as  he  looked  around 
liim  with  a  pleased  air ;  "  and  here  are  your  rooms,  Blanche 
Look  at  them,  and  tell  me  what  more  they  require."  As  he 
said  this,  Lord  Rutherford  entered  a  small  but  lofty  and  very 
prettily  shaped  apartment,  which  though  harmonizing  with  the 
rest  of  the  castle  in  its  general  style,  was  fitted  up  with  mauv 
of  the  refinements  of  modern  luxury.  The  choice  pictures,  the 
piano  and  harp,  the  sofas,  couches,  work-table,  and  books  ;  and 
especially,  the  flowers  with  which  the  vases  on  the  tables  were 
filled,  gave  Blanche,  in  an  instant,  the  idea  of  forethought,  and 
care,  and  affection;  though,  when  she  tried  to  express  her 
gratitude,  she  could  find  no  words  to  satisfy  her  feelings. 

The  earl,  however,  did  not  need  words  ;  he  looked  at  her  ftn 
a  moment  with  proud  delight,  whilst  in  her  grace  and  beauty 
she  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  the  fitting  mistress  of  all 
that  wealth  and  love  could  bestow  ;  and,  after  pointing  to  a 
small  study  opening  from  the  outer  room,  he  said,  carelessly, 
"  We  will  see  the  view  from  this  side  now,  Blanche ;  it  is 
liflerent  from  the  other." 

Blanche  followed  him  throucrh  the  hall  into  the  fr.^rden  '  Lut 


'28  THE    earl's    daughter. 

■vvlicn  she  loatit  over  the  parapet,  which  bordered  the  lerraoe  in 
front  of  the  window,  she  started  ahnost  with  alarm  upon  dis- 
covering the  giddy  height  at  which  she  stood  above  the  deep 
river  that  flowed  round  the  castle. 

To  the  right,  the  walls  of  the  keep  shut  out  the  view  over  the 
distant  country ;  but  immediately  before  her  the  ground  sank 
almost  ]ieri)endicularly,  and  far,  far  below  gleamed  the  clear 
waters  of  the  rapid  stream,  as  it  forced  its  way  between  the 
rocky  foundations  of  tlie  castle  and  the  lofty  wooded  hill  which 
formed  its  oj^posite  bank.  For  about  the  space  of  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  it  was  inclosed  in  a  narrow  ravine  ;  but  a  sharp  projecting 
point  of  land  then  opposing  its  further  progress,  its  course  was 
suddenly  diverted  in  a  different  direction ;  and  the  eye,  no 
longer  able  to  follow  its  Avindings,  turned  rather  to  the  long 
vista  of  hills,  locked  into  each  other,  and  capped  by  the  rugged 
outline  of  a  mountain-peak,  which  formed  the  termination  of  the 
valley. 

The  scene  was  striking  even  to  the  earl,  accustomed  though 
he  was  to  the  varied  beauties  of  other  lands  ;  but  to  Blanche, 
{IS  she  beheld  it  for  the  first  time  under  the  dark  shadows  and 
brilliant  lights  of  a  soft  yet  not  cloudless  sky,  its  eftect  was 
magical. 

"  It  is  your  home,  Blanche,"  said  the  earl,  as  he  stood  beside 
her,  watching  the  feelings  that  were  plainly  working  in  her 
countenance. 

"And  yours,  too,  pa])a,"  said  Blanche,  striving  at  length  to 
give  her  father  some  idea  that  she  appreciated  his  atiection. 
"  It  can  never  be  my  paradise  without  you." 

"Then  we  will  make  our  agreement  to-night,  my  child," 
replied  the  earl ;  "  our  happiness  shall  be  in  each  other, — and, 
whilst  we  are  together,  the  world  shall  never  intrude  upon  us 
with  its  cares." 

Blanche  smiled  sweetly,  yet  the  words  so  full  of  hope  and 
happiness  fell  with  something  of  a  discordant  sound  uj)on  her 
ear.  The  serpent  had  entered  into  Eden,  and  how  could  she 
dare  to  anticipate  immunity  from  evil  ?  The  earl,  however, 
seemed  at  that  moment  to  have  no  forebodings  ; — every  trace 
of  sadness  had  passed  from  his  brow,  and  his  voice  was  more 
cheerful  than  Blanche  had  yet  heard  it.  He  would  not,  how- 
ever, allow  her  to  linger  longer  on  the  terrace,  fearing  lest  she 
would  be  fatigued  after  the  journey ;  and,  summoning  her  maid, 
insisted  that  she  should  retire  to  her  room  for  a  short  time  to 
rest  before  she  rejoined  him  for  the  evening.    Blanche,  however 


THE    earl's    dauguter.  20 

did  not  rest :  she  retired  indeed,  but  it  was  to  kneel  humbly 
betbre  her  God ;  to  acknowledge  his  mercies,  and  pray  that  the 
blessings  which  He  had  vouchsafed  to  grant  her  might  never 
lead  her  heart  astray. 


CHAPTER  YI. 


If  the  first  waking  to  a  sense  of  sorrow  is  bitter  almos* 
beyond  any  other  moment  of  sutlering,  so  the  first  dawning  of 
happiness,  at  least  upon  the  young,  is  bright  beyond  the  power 
of  description.  Blanche  dreamt  that  she  was  in  the  old  manor- 
house  of  St.  Ebbe's,  grieving  over  a  letter  from  her  father. 
which,  as  had  so  often  been  the  case,  gave  her  no  prospect  of 
seeing  him.  She  opened  her  eyes,  and  the  sun  was  shining 
into  a  spacious,  gorgeously  furnished  chamber,  fitted  rather  it 
might  seem  for  the  palace  of  a  queen  than  for  her  own  simple 
tastes.  For  an  instant,  she  scarcely  understood  the  reality  of 
her  senses;  out,  as  she  hastily  rose  and  gazed  from  the  window, 
a  full  consciousness  of  her  happiness  came  over  her.  There 
were  the  old  grey  castle  walls,  the  silvery  stream,  the  woods 
and  hills,  noiv  bathed  in  morning  liolit,  and  the  distant  moun- 
tain-peak wi'eathed  with  a  vapoury  mist, — all  which  she  had 
beheld  the  previous  evening,  and  which  she  felt  must  be  for  ever 
associated  with  the  thought  of  her  father's  love.  It  was  then 
very  early,  but  Blanche  did  not  consider  the  hour,  and  had  no 
remembrance  of  the  preceding  day's  exertion ;  and,  long  before 
the  earl  had  left  his  room,  she  was  wandering  through  the 
garden  and  the  park,  exploring  overgrown  paths,  and  mounting 
hillocks,  to  gain  a  clearer  idea  of  the  beauties  of  her  new  home. 
Lord  liutherford  gently  found  fault  with  her,  when  she  appeared 
at  breakfast,  fur  having  given  herself  so  much  unnecessary  fatigue ; 
but  when  Blanche  gaily  declared  that  she  did  not  feel  it,  and  that 
she  could  bear 'more  than  many  who  appeared  much  stronger, 
he  seemed  quite  satisfied  that  she  should  follow  l;er  own  fancy, 
and  began  to  make  arrangements  for  what  was  to  be  done 
during  the  day, 

"  You  will  find  it  but  a  short  walk  to  the  rectory,"  he  said  , 
"  and  I  su[>posfc  you  will  wish  to  go  there  the  fii'st  thing,  uiiK'ss 
Miss  Wentworth  should  be  here  soon,  which,  from  what  1 
remember  of  the  family  habits,  is  not  very  likely.  I  nevercoulJ 
induce  Dr.  Wentworlh  to  leave  his  bo  jks  till  after  luncheon." 


00  THE      EAUL    S      DAUGHTER. 

"  But  Eleanor's  liabits  are  the  habits  of  St.  El)be's,  not  of  the 
rectorv,"  rejiHed  Blanche,  "  and  she  will  do  wliatever  she  thinks 
will  |ili'ase  me.     1  should  like  to  go  to  her,  though,  extremely. 

1  want  so  much  to  see  more  of  her  family — her  sister  and  her 
brother — and  especially  her  mother." 

"  Her  sister  must  be  a  mere  child,"  replied  the  earl ;  "  and  her 
brother,  I  suspect,  is  away  ;  and  <as  for  Mrs.  Wentworth,  she  is 
not  a  ])erson  to  get  on  with,  as  it  is  called.  She  is  very  good, 
and  all  that  ladies  always  are  ;  but  I  never  could  understand 
that  she  was  anything  more." 

''  Eleanor  is  very  fond  of  her  mother,"  said  Blanche. 

"  Yes,  my  love,  verj'^  likely  she  may  be  ;  but  I  don't  want 
you  to  bo  disappointed,  and  I  have  no  idea  that  you  will  be 
*bnd  of  Mrs.  Wentworth." 

Blanche  however  w;is  disappointed.  She  had  set  her  heart 
upon  finding  in  Mrs.  Wentworth  a  second  Mrs.  Howard." 

"  Eleanor  used  to  show  me  some  of  her  letters,"  she  said  ; 
"  and  they  made  me  think  she  must  be  almost  perfect." 

Something  like  a  contemptuous  smile  crossed  the  earl's  face. 

"  You  will  have  ditierent  notions  of  perfection,  Blanche,"  he 
said,  "  as  you  grow  older.  It  is  not  so  often  to  be  met  with  as 
some  people  think." 

Blanche  made  no  reply.  That  peculiar  smile  was  one  to 
which  she  was  unaccustomed,  and  Lord  Kutherfjrd  not 
continuing  the  subject,  nothing  more  was  said  about  Mrs. 
Wentworth. 

"  I  shall  make  Eleanor  come  back  with  me,  and  assist  in  all  I 
have  to  do,"  said  Blanche,  as  her  father  suggested  that  there 
would  be  ample  employment  for  her  in  choosing  how  she  would 
liave  everything  placed  in  her  rooms,  ar.d  making  herself  at 
home  in  them.  "  She  promised  me  she  would  ;  so  I  had  better 
go  to  her  at  once." 

'"  Then  we  will  walk  togetlier,"  said  the  earl.  "  I  must  see 
Wentworth  myself,  and  thank  him  for  the  care  he  has  taken  in 
seeing  your  apartments  prepared  for  your  reception." 

The  path  to  the  rectory  was  much  shorter  than  Blanche  had 
anticipated,  leading  down  the  steep  hill  upou  which  the  castle 
stood,  and  then  following  the  coui-se  of  the  river  for  a  little 
distance,  till  it  terminated  at  a  wicket-gate,  which  opened  into 
the  shrubbery  adjoining  the  house.  Blanche  was  delighted 
with  the  neatness  and  beauty  of  the  small  pleasure-ground 
through  which  they  passed,  and  the  comfortable  appearance  of 
the  parsonage,  with  its  trelliced  verandah  covered  with  creepers 


THE      earl's      DAUGHTEK.  31 

She  would  not  have  exchanged  her  own  magnificent  home  foi 
it  ;  but  she  felt  that  there  was  nothing  to  gi\e  rise  in  Eleanor's 
mind  to  any  feelings  of  envy  or  discontent.  It  was  the  home 
of  aifliuence,  if  not  of  riches. 

The  dra;yjng-room  was  empty  when  they  were  shown  into  it, 
and  Blanche  had  time  to  recognise  many  things  which  Eleanor 
had  ^scribed  before  ;  and  to  study  with  much  interest  a  like- 
ness which  she  was  certain  must  be  that  of  Mrs.  AVentworth, 
before  any  one  appeared. 

The  first  interruption  was  from  a  huge  Newfoundland  dog, 
which  sprang  through  the  open  window  in  bold  defiance  of  the 
warnino-  voice  of  his  master,  who  immediately  followed.  lie 
was  a  young  man,  apparently  about  three  or  four-and-twenty, 
tall  and  rather  striking  in  his  appearance,  and  with  a  countenance 
which  would  have  been  termed  extremely  handsome  ;  but 
Blanche,  as  startled  by  the  intrusion  she  turned  from  the 
examination  of  Mrs.  Wentworth's  picture,  was  less  aware  that 
his  features  were  regular,  and  his  mannei-s  polished,  than  that 
he  was  not  entirely  the  pei-son  she  had  expected  to  meet  in 
Eleanor's  brother.  Such  it  was  evident,  from  the  strong  resem- 
blance, he  must  be.  There  was  cleverness  certainly  in  his  bright 
blue  eve,  and  the  high  forehead  round  which  his  dark  hair  was 
carefully  arranged  ;  and  his  mouth  was  good-tempered,  though 
perhaps  a  little  sarcastic  ;  but  a  self-satisfaction  betrayed  itself 
in  his  look  and  general  deportment,  which  almost  from  the  first 
glance  Blanche  felt  to  be  repugnant  to  her  taste.  Yet  there 
was  little  said  that  could  show  anything  of  his  disposition.  A 
few  apologies  were  made  for  his  sudden  entrance,  and  a  little 
regret  expressed  that  they  should  have  been  kei)t  waiting  ;  and 
then  Mr,  Wentworth  bowed,  and  retired,  with  the  intention  of 
seeking  his  mother  and  sister,  who  he  believed  were  to  be 
found  in  the  garden. 

"  I  should  have  known  him  anywhere,"  exclaimed  the  earl, 
when  he  was  gone ;  "  and  you  would,  too,  I  am  sure,  Blanche, 
J.>-d  you  -^vei;  s^e  such  a  likeness  ?" 

"  it  is  striking,  certainly,"  replied  Blanche,  with  some  hesita- 
tion ;  "  but -" 

"  Well,"  said  the  earl,  laughing,  "what  is  your  but?  I  should 
have  thought  it  impossible  to  criticise  anything  so  regularly 
handsome." 

"  I  do  not  mean  to  criticise,  papa,"  said  Blanche,  blushing  ; 
"  but  I  don't  think  it  would  please  me  if  Eleanor  wert' 
exactly " 


32  THE       EARLS      DAUGHTER. 

The  soiitenre  was  not  concluded,  for  Eleanor  at  that  instant 
appeared,  her  face  bright  with  pleasure  and  exciten  ent. 

"  It  is  so  kind,  so  very  kind  in  you,  Blanche,"  she  said.  "  I 
did  not  in  the  least  ex])ect  you  ;  for  I  am  sure  you  must  hav<; 
jis  much  to  do  iis  I  have." 

"  I  have  left  it  all,"  replied  Blanche,  "  till  you  were  with  me. 
You  know  I  am  never  able  to  please  myself ;  and  you  must  go 
back  to  'Jie  castle  presently,  and  help  me  to  arrange  my  rooms, 
and  then  we  will  settle  all  sort  of  things.  But  I  wanted  so 
much,  first,  to  see  your  mother  and  little  Susan." 

"  And  Charles  !"  exclaimed  Eleanor,  eagerly.  "  He  told  us 
you  were  here  :  he  came  only  last  night,  and  he  is  going  away 
again  to-morrow." 

"  So  soon  !"  observed  the  earl ;  "  Ave  shall  scarcely  have  time 
to  make  his  acquaintance." 

"  I  don't  know  why  he  should  go,"  replied  Eleanor  ;  "  but  I 
don't  think  he  finds  as  much  amusement  here  as  he  does  else- 
where.    LTome  is  rather  dull  for  a  young  man." 

Blanche  believed  this  because  she  was  told  it,  but  it  seemed 
strange.  She  could  not  imagine  what  society  any  one  could 
want  beyond  such  a  sister  as  Eleanor,  such  parents  as  she 
believed  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Wentworth  to  be,  and  such  a  home  as 
liutherford  Rectory. 

"  Mamma  will  be  here  instantly  ;  she  is  longing  to  see  you, 
Blanche,"  continued  Eleanor. 

"  I  think  I  hear  Mrs.  VVentworth's  voice,"  said  Lord  Ruther- 
ford ;  and  he  went  a  few  paces  into  the  garden  to  meet  her  ; 
but  though  his  words  were  cordial  and  easy,  his  tone  was  not  ; 
and  but  hr  Mrs.  Weiitworth's  perfect  calmness  of  manner,  there 
mioht  have  been  something  awkward  in  the  meeting. 

Blanche  aid  feel  as  her  father  had  expected,  when  Mrs. 
Wentworth  advanced  towards  her,  and  simply  took  her  hand 
as  she  would  have  done  that  of  an  indifferent  person.  She  had 
expected  some  show  of  feeling,  at  least  for  Eleanor's  sake ;  but 
Mrs.  Wentworth's  soft,  quiet  voice  underwent  no  change  in  its 
intonation,  even  when  she  looked  at  the  earl,  and  said  "  Lord 
Rutherford's  return  will  now  be  doubly  welcome  to  us  all." 

A  few  trilling  observations  passed,  and  Lord  Rutherford,  witli 
a  slight  accent  of  impatience,  inquired  if  there  was  no  hope  o' 
seeing  Dr.  Wentwoith. 

"  He  has  been  called  into  the  village  unexpectedly,"  rejvjird 
Mrs.  Wentworth  :  "  but  we  expect  him  to  return  imuie  iiately 
Can  I  deliver  any  message  for  him  ?" 


THE    Karl's    daughter.  33 

"  Perhaps  I  might  be  allowed  to  leave  a  note  in  his  study," 
replied  the  earl.  "  I  think  I  know  where  to  tind  it,"  and  he 
left  the  room. 

Blanche  in  the  meantime  had  been  interested  in  observing 
Mrs.  Wentvjorth  more  minutely.  She  resembled  Eleanor's 
description,  in  her  tall,  sliylit  figure,  and  delicate,  though  rather 
harassed-looking  countenance ;  but  there  were  no  traces  of  the 
feelings  which  had  been  so  vividly  portrayed  in  her  letters. 
That  she  was  Eleanor's  mother,  Blanche  could  scarce'y  believe, 
as  she  watched  the  eager  impetuosity  of  the  one,  and  the  inarble 
frigidity  of  the  other  ;  still  less  could  she  believe  that  Eleanor 
could  ever  dare  to  unburden  her  heart  to  such  a  mother.  And 
yet  the  love  which  she  had  been  told  existed  between  them  had 
"been  her  "  beau  iueal "  of  what  the  tie  between  a  parent  and 
a  child  might  and  ought  to  be.  When  Lord  Rutherford  was 
gone,  however,  there  was  a  little  change  in  Mrs.  AVentworth's 
manner.  The  questions  which  she  asked  were  marked  by  con- 
sideration, and  a  desire  to  understand  something  of  Blanche's 
feelings,  at  this  her  first  visit  to  her  home ;  and  though  the 
tone  in  which  they  were  put  was  cold,  it  still  betrayed  some- 
thing more  of  real  sympathy  than  before  ;  and  when  Blanche 
began  to  express  her  ](le;isure  in  the  taste  and  cai'e  which  had 
been  showa  in  furnishing  her  rooms,  a  quiet  smile  even  stole 
over  Mrs.  Wentworth's  features,  and  her  eye  brightened,  though 
she  immediately  afterwards  turned  from  the  subject.  But 
Blanche  had  not  much  time  for  any  further  remarks.  Eleanor 
insisted  upon  taking  her  to  the  school-room,  and  the  garden 
and  shrubbery,  and,  as  she  said,  making  her  at  home  at  once ; 
and  Blanche,  only  too  glad  of  an  excuse  to  be  alone  with  her, 
readily  followed.  It  did  not  require  much  time  to  see  the 
whule,  but  Blanche  lingered  with  pleasure  to  listen  to  all  that 
Eleanor  had  to  say  of  past  enjoyments  and  future  hopes  asso- 
ciated with  the  place  in  which  she  had  been  born,  as  well  as  to 
make  acquaintance  with  her  sister  Susan,  an  intelligent-lookin;,' 
child,  about  eight  yeai-s  of  age,  who  was  now  to  be  Eleanor's 
pupil. 

"  I  think  you  must  be  happy,  Eleanor,"  she  exclaimed,  as 
tliey  seated  themselves  at  length  on  a  garden-seat,  in  a  retired 
part  of  the  shrubbery.  "  I  do  not  see  one  thing  that  is  wanting. 
And  3^ou  will  lead  such  a  useful  life." 

"  I  have  been  talking  to  papa  already  about  what  I  am  to 
Jo,"  replied  Eleanor.  "  I  am  to  teach  Susan  in  the  mornings, 
ind  to  go  in  the  afternoons  to  see  some  of  the  poor  peopli 


34  THE      EARLS      DAUGHTER. 

and  sometimes  I  am  to  ride  with  biin,  and  he  is  going  to  read 
with  me  some  part  of  the  day.'' 

"  And  your  music  and  drawing  ?"  said  Bhmche. 

"  Oh !  1  must  contrive  to  have  some  time  before  breakfjist 
You  know  I  cannot  arrange  for  every  hour  exactly  till  I  have 
tried  ;  but  that  will  be  the  sort  of  life." 

"  And  what  is  to  become  of  me  ?"  said  Blanche. 

"  That  is  what  I  wished  to  talk  to  you  about.  We  must 
manage  to  go  to  the  poor  people  together ;  and,  when  Susan 
has  a  iioliday,  I  can  come  up  to  you  in  the  morning,  and  we 
can  ride  together  ;  and  then,  these  nice  summer  evenings,  there 
will  be  no  difficulty  in  meeting." 

Eleanor  spoke  eagerly  and  confidently,  and  Blanche  did  not 
stop  to  analyse  possibilities  ;  nor  did  she  remark  how  much 
her  friend  had  changed  since  they  had  parted  the  preceding 
evening.  She  was  too  much  accustomed  to  Eleanor's  varying 
moods  to  inquire  their  cause. 

"  I  am  longing  to  begin,"  continued  Eleanor;  "but  to-day 
you  know  is  no  day,  and  Chailes  being  here  makes  such  a 
diti'erence.  It  is  impossible  to  do  anything  but  idle  away  one's 
time  with  him." 

Blanche  smiled,  but  she  did  not  wish  the  subject  to  be  pur- 
sued ;  for  she  w;is  afraid  lest  Eleanor  might  discover  that  Mr. 
AVentworth,  notwithstanding  his  handsome  face  and  his  agree- 
able manners,  did  not  entirely  answer  her  preconceived  expec- 
tations. 

"  And  now  T  have  talked  all  about  myself,"  said  Eleanor,  "  I 
should  like  to  hear  sometliing  about  yourself: — the  casrle,  and 
your  father,  and  your  own  rooms.  They  must  be  exquisite,  I 
am  sure.  M;unma  had  the  whole  choosing  of  the  furniture, 
and  everything,  and  she  has  such  taste  !" 

"Yes,  indeed  she  has,"  exclaimed  IJlanehe  ;  "  but  I  wist)  I  h^d 
known  it,  I  ohould  have  thanked  her  so  much  more." 

"  Oh  !  mamma  is  not  a  person  to  require  thanks ;  she  only 
requires  to  know  that  you  like  it:  and  I  saw  by  her  smile  just 
now  that  she  was  satisfied.  That  is  her  unselfish  smile.  1 
believe  she  would  have  it  if  she  was  in  the  greatest  suftering, 
if  she  thought  another  person  was  haj)p)'." 

"  I  did  not  know  what  it  meant,"  said  Blanche  ;  "  but  I  sup- 
pose I  shall  understand  you  all  by-and-by,  when  I  don't  feel  so 
5liy." 

Eleanor  laughed. 

**  As  to  that,  Blanche,"  she  said,  "  you  have  no  right  to  com- 


THE      earl's      daughter.  3^ 

jilain.  The  joint  wisdom  and  gravity  of  my  uliole  fainilj- — ■ 
uncles,  aunts  and  cousins  included,  and  I  have  an  interminable 
number,  could  never  be  half  as  awful  as  Lord  Kutherford's 
politeness ;  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do  at  the  castle." 

"  I  think  I,  rather  like  being  afraid  of  him,"  said  Blanche. 
"  Do  yoix  remember,  Eleanor,  how  we  used  to  walk  up  and 
down  the  garden  at  St  Ebbe's,  and  discuss  the  different  kinda 
of  affection  V 

"  And  how  we  always  differed,"  said  Eleanor.  "  You  with 
your  fondness  for  looking  np  ;  and  I  with  my  perverse  inclina- 
tion to  look  down  ;  no,  not  down  exactly,  but  quite  on  a  level." 

"  And  then  our  appeals  to  Mrs.  Howard,"  said  Blanche. 
"  That  will  be  the  one  great  thing  wanting  to  my  happiness. 
If  she  were  but  here  !" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Eleanor,  "  but  she  will  be  with  us  soon,  and 
then  it  will  be  such  great,  such  very  great  f  Jeasure  ;  and  novr, 
without  her,  I  have  more  hope  of  making  ycu  think  as  I  do  ia 
all  sorts  of  ways  ;  for  she  always  su[)ported  you." 

"  But,"  said  Blanche,  "  before  Mrs.  Iloward  talked  to  us,  I 
never  could  see  anything  in  your  arguments  to  convince  me 
that  love  is  greatest  when  persons  are  on  an  equality  ;  and 
there  is  one  thing,  you  know,  entirely  against  it,  devotion — 
which  is  the  liighest  and  jiurest  love." 

"  I  can't  follow  you  in  an  argument,  Blanche,  to-day," 
exclaimed  Eleanor  ;  "  my  mind  is  not  up  to  it,  as  it  is  some- 
times." 

Blanche  looked  disappointed.  "  I  thought,"  she  said,  "  that 
you  would  let  me  talk  of  these  things  always." 

"  Yes,  so  you  shall ;  but  I  don't  tliink  1  am  in  that  sort  of 
sober  mood  to-day  ;  I  am  too  hap|)y." 

"I  am  happy,  too,"  said  Blanche;  "Init  my  extacies  went 
awav  with  my  walk  this  morning,  and  I  don't  wi:,h  them  to 
hist." 

"  Mine  never  do,"  replied  Eleanor,  laughing ;  "so  I  am  in  no 
fear.  1  shall  p3y  deaily  for  all  my  enjoyment  before  night 
comes,  I  dare  say.  It  would  be  much  better  to  be  like  you, 
Blanche;  your  extacies  never  go  quite  away,  I  am  sure,  though 
you  say  they  do." 

''  1  don't  know,"  said  Blanche  ;  "  cert;iinly  I  don't  ft-el  much  of 
them  at  this  moment ;  and  some  feelings  you  have  which  are 
much  more  lasting  than  mine." 

Blanche  spoke  as  she  thought,  truly  :  yet  it  was  onl)  her 
own  humility,  and  a  natural  respect  for  Eleanor's  talents  and 


36  THE    earl's    daughter. 

decided  opinions,  which  could  have  blinded  her  to  the  fact,  that 
Eleanor  was  in  reality  swayed  by  every  passint^  im])ulse  ;  that 
she  expressed  herself  strong-Iy,  but  that  she  actt^d  weakly.  And 
if  Blanche  had  been  quicker  in  discerning,  Eleanor  would  have 
felt  greater  hesitation  in  owning  her  faults.  But  it  required  no 
etlbrt  to  lament  changeableness  and  hastiness,  and  the  defects 
of  an  enthusiastic  temperament,  when  she  was  sure  to  be  met 
with  a  quick  refutation  of  her  self  accusations,  and  to  hear 
instances  adduced  which  apparently  proved  her  to  be  the  very 
reverse  of  what  she  acknowledged.  It  was  one  of  the  weak- 
nesses of  Blanche's  character  that  where  she  loved  she  could 
not  or  would  not  see  anything  amiss.  "  I  must  try  and  be 
regular  in  my  habits,"  she  said,  "  pursuing  the  conversation  ; 
"  but  I  am  afraid  it  will  be  very  difficult.  I  should  like  espe- 
cially to  know  something  of  the  poor  people,  if  your  papa  will 
put  me  in  the  way." 

"  Papa  hopes  you  will  take  a  great  interest  in  them,"  said 
Eleanor ;  "  he  told  me  this  morning  that  it  was  of  immense 
consequence  to  you  and  to  them ;  and  he  talked  a  great  deal 
about  the  vast  power,  either  for  good  or  evil,  which  had  been 
placed  in  your  hands." 

*'  In  mine  ! "  exclaimed  Blanche  ;  "  now  when  I  am  so 
young." 

"  But  you  are  not  going  to  remain  young  always,"  replied 
Eleanor ;  "  and,  besides,  whether  young  or  old,  you  are  still 
Lady  Blanche  Evelyn,  the  heiress  of  Rutherford." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Blanche,  with  a  deep  sigh,  which  made 
Eleanor  laugh  heartily. 

"  You  are  the  very  strangest  person,  Blanche  !  Just  think 
bow  many  "^housands  there  are  in  the  world  who  would  envy 
you." 

"  And  I  am  to  be  envied,"  exclaimed  Blanche,  "  for  my 
fiiends, — for  papa,  and  Mrs.  Ilowaid,  and  you ;  and  for  my 
health  too,  and  my  education,  aiid  innumerable  things  ;  but  not 
because  I  was  born  to  have  power." 

"  Yes,  if  you  exercise  it  properly,"  said  Eleanor. 

"If!  but  there  is  a  doubt.  Mrs.  Howard  is  afraid  of  me; 
she  thinks  I  shall  be  spoilt,  and  that  paj)a  will  not  tell  me 
of  my  faults.  Oh  !  Eleanor,  it  might  be  very  ditferent  if  I  had 
a  mother." 

"  You  may  have  one  if  you  choose,"  replied  Eleanor.  "  ilam- 
nia  is  already  inclined  to  feel  for  you  as  her  child." 

Blanche  did  not  receive  the  comfort  which  was  expected  from 


THE    earl's    daughter.  3*2 

tills  apsuranco :  ln^r  notion  of  a  mother's  aftl'ction  was  of  some- 
tliirii^  widely  different  from  Mrs.  Wentworth's  cold  shake  of 
the  hand.  "Your  mamma  is  very  kind,"  she  said;  "I  am 
sure  she  will  do  everything  she  can  to  help  me.  But  still  I 
must  be  left  very  much  to  myself;  and  even  during  the  few 
hours  I  have  been  at  home,  I  have  understood  more  of  what 
Mrs.  Howard  meant.  The  castle  is  so  grand,  and  the  servants 
seem  almost  to  bow  before  me  ;  and  as  for  papa,  he  watches 
my  every  look,  that  I  may  not  have  a  wish  ungratified ;  and 
when  I  awoke  this  morning,  and  saw  my  beautiful  room,  I  did 
not  feel  as  I  used  to  do  at  St.  Ebbe's ;  I  thought  that  I  could 
order  more  and  have  my  own  will ;  and  then  I  remembered 
what  Mrs.  Howard  said,  and  I  was  frightened." 

Eleanor  was  touched  by  this  simple  confession.  That  which 
caused  alarm  to  Blanche,  would,  she  well  knew,  have  passed 
unnoticed  by  herself.  "You  will  be  used  to  it  all,  dear  Blanche, 
by-and-by,"  she  said ;  "  and  then  you  will  not  think  so  much 
about  it,  and  worry  yourself;  and  I  dare  say  we  shall  both  bo 
able  to  go  on  steadily ;  and  if  you  want  to  know  the  poor 
people,  ^^•e  can  go  to  them  together.  The  first  person  we  must 
find  out  is  the  blind  girl  who  was  confirmed  with  us.  Papa 
says  he  knows  who  she  is  very  well ;  it  was  her  aunt,  who  ia 
the  mistress  of  the  Charity  School,  that  she  was  staying  with 
but  she  is  coming  back  directly.  "We  will  go  and  see  her  th(i 
first  day  we  can,  won't  we  ?  " 

Even  this  shadow  of  a  duty  was  some  relief  to  poor  Blanchq 
whose  conscience  had  a  natural  tendency  to  become  morbidlj 
sensitive,  an  1  Eleanor  saw  that  she  had  struck  upon  the  righl 
chord.  Anxious  to  make  Blanche  feel  as  light-hearted  as  her- 
S(df,  she  continued  to  plan  a  scheme  of  duties  and  occupations^ 
so  cleverly  and  earnestly,  that  before  the  conversation  w;i3 
interrupted  both  were  equally  satisfied.  Eleanor  having  talked 
herself  into  the  belief  that  she  was  certainly  devoted  to  a  useful 
life ;  and  Blanche,  having  listened,  till  she  was  peisuaded  that 
with  such  a  frieuti,  constantly  at  hand  to  remind  her  of  neglects, 
she  could  never  go  far  astray. 

The  afternoon  was  sjtent  at  the  castle  where  Blanche  found 
sufficient  to  occupy  and  interest  both  herself  and  Eleanor  in  the 
arrangement  of  her  rooms  ;  and  when  they  parted  it  was  wiih 
the  agreement  that,  if  the  earl  had  no  other  ]>lan  for  the  ensu- 
ing divy,  they  were  to  walk  together  into  the  village.  "  And  if 
h.)  wishes  me  to  ride  with  him,  instead,"  said  Jjlanche ;  "  I 
imist  ask  him  to  let  me  come  to  you  for  an  hour  in  the  evening." 


38  THE     earl's    daughter. 

Eleanor  willingly  agreed,  delighted  to  find  that  as  yet  there 
was  no  cause  for  jealousy,  since  even  the  society  of  Lord  Ruther- 
ford did  not  make  Blanche  forget  her. 


CHAPTER  VL. 

And  so  passed  *he  first  day  of  Blanche's  residence  \i  Ruther- 
ford Castle  ;  and  so  passed  several  days  ;  varied,  indeed,  by 
drives,  and  rides,  and  books,  and  visits,  both  to  rich  and  poor ; 
but  all,  equally  bright  and  unalloyed,  for  the  petty  disappoint- 
ments and  trilling  vexations  from  which  no  care  and  no  affection 
can  guard  us,  were  little  felt  by  one  who  carried  in  her  own 
breast  a  shield  against  them.  Each  morning  long  before  the 
Earl  was  awake,  Blanche  knelt  in  the  solitude  of  her  own 
chamber  to  pray  for  guidance  during  tlie  day  ;  and  then,  with 
her  Bible  in  her  hand,  paced  the  broad  terrace  overhanging  the 
river,  that  she  might  study  the  will  of  her  Maker,  amid  the 
scenes  which  brought  Ilis  jiower  and  goodness  most  clearly  to 
her  view.  Each  day  she  planned  her  occupations  with  a  view 
to  her  own  improvement,  her  father's  happiness,  and  the  com- 
fort of  those  who  were  in  a  measure  entrusted  to  her  care  ;  and 
not  the  most  busy  hour  nor  the  most  absorbing  pursuit  could 
lead  her  to  forget  that  it  was  needful  to  withdraw  some 
moments  from  this  world  to  devote  to  the  contemplation  of 
another.  Mrs.  Howard  had  early  implanted  in  her  mind 
habits  of  order  and  punctuality  ;  and,  duly  as  the  time  came, 
which  she  had  fixed  upon  as  the  most  free  from  interruption, 
Blanche  retired  to  her  own  chamber  to  consider  what  she  Lad 
done  since  last  engaged  in  the  same  duty ;  or,  if  prevented  at 
the  exact  minu';e,  the  first  leisure  op])ortunity  was  eagerly 
seized  upon,  without  any  '?gard  to  the  jilausible  excuses,  which 
might  easily  have  been  made  from  weariness  or  a  pre-occupied 
mind.  ]31anche  never  forgot  Mrs.  Howard's  words,  "Not,  I 
will  if  I  can,  but  I  mirst."  And  one  especial  reason  she  now 
had  for  allowing  nothing  to  interfere  with  her  religioHs  duties, 
in  the  hope  of  being  so  soon  admitted  to  the  full  communion  ot 
the  Church,  and  the  anxiety  fitly  to  prepare  herself. 

On  the  second  Sunday  after  Blanche  appeared  in  the  old 
village  church  of  Rutherford,  the  accustomed  invitation  was 
given  to  all  "  such  as  should  be  religiously  and  devoutly  dis- 
posed," and  as  Blanche  listened  to  the  words  a  feeling  of  "loneli^ 


THE    earl's    daughter.  39 

ncss  stole  over  her.  Eleanor  was  near,  with  the  mother,  who 
could  share  ever}^  thought  and  feeling  ;  and  the  father,  whose 
voice  faltered,  as  his  eye  rested  on  the  countenance  of  the  child 
he  so  dearly  loved,  and  to  whom  for  the  first  time  the  exhorta- 
tion was  addressed.  And  Blanche  stood  ui  that  sacred  building, 
with  but  one  exception,  the  noblest  and  wealthiest  of  all ;  and 
with  her  was  the  proud  earl  whose  sternest  will  would  have 
yielded  to  her  wishes,  as  the  humblest  of  his  servants  would 
have  submitted  to  his  ;  but  the  one  great  blessing  which  she 
then  desired,  a  parent's  sympathy  and  advice  on  the  subject 
most  deeply  concerning  her  happiness,  was  denied  her. 

Upon  this  topic  alone  no  Avord  had  passed  between  them — 
thev  met  in  the  morning  and  the  world  was  the  theme  ot  their 
conversation ;  they  parted  at  night  and  no  words  of  prayer  were 
uttered  to  call  for  a  blessing  upon  the  midnight  hour.  Poetry, 
and  painting,  and  music,  and  literature,  and  even  the  deeper 
subjects  of  science  and  })hilo*:)phy,  were  all  at.  times  introduced, 
and  Blanche  with  her  natural  refinement  and  superiority  of 
mind  was  fjiscinated  by  the  earl's  eloquent  language  and 
exquisite  taste.  His  words  were  as  the  words  of  enchantment ; 
for,  as  he  spoke  of  Italy  and  Greece,  and  the  sunn\'  islands  of 
the  south,  even  Blanche  forgot  for  the  moment  that  earth  was 
but  the  steppiHg-stone  to  heaven  ;  its  beauty,  but  a  tyjie  of  that 
which  shall  be  hereafter  ;  its  genius  and  its  learning,  but  the 
faint  and  misused  relics  of  that  perfect  creation  which  only  when 
it  issued  taintless  from  the  hands  of  its  Creator,  was  pronounced 
to  be  "  very  good."  But  the  earl  ceased,  and  Blanche  was  left 
to  her  own  meditations,  and  then  as  she  retraced  the  conversa- 
tion and  sought  for  something  which  should  be  treasured  in  her 
memory,  a  vague  sense  of  unsatisf  ictoriness  filled  her  mind.  A 
glittering  pageant  seemed  to  have  passed  before  her;  but  it 
was  gone.  And  of  what  avail  was  it  to  her  to  have  vividly 
realised  the  solemn  beauty  oi  Genoa,  and  the  dazzling  lustre  of 
Naples ;  to  have  wandered  in  ikncy  beneath  the  vast  dome  of 
St.  Peter's,  or  stood  amidst  the  giant  ruins  of  the  Coliseum  ; 
to  have  floated  in  the  dark  gondolas  of  V^enice,  or  gazed  upon 
the  blue  waters  of  the  Mediterranean  ;  or  how  could  it  content 
her  to  hear  of  Kaphael,  and  Michael  Angelo,  and  Guido; — of 
Dante  and  Ariosto,  and  Tasso  and  Petrarch,  and  the  names 
which  associate  Italy  with  all  that  is  most  ))rccious  in  poetry 
and  art,  if  all  were  but  for  the  amusement  of  the  hour,  bearing 
no  voice  of  warning  from  the  past,  no  lesson  of  instruction  for 
Ujg  future  ?     But  Blanche  did  not  yet  understand  all  she  liad 


40  TIIS     EAUl's      DAUGHTEn. 

to  foar.  She  iiiarvolled  indeed  at  her  father's  apparent  neglect 
of  the  subject  most  interesting  to  herself;  she  thought  it  strange 
that  not  even  an  allusion  was  made  to  it :  but  she  was  capti- 
vated by  the  brilliancy  of  his  conversation,  and  accounted  for  his 
silence  by  remembering  her  own  reluctance  to  converse  upon 
serious  subjects,  except  at  peculiar  times  and  under  certain 
circumstances.  She  had  been  told  that  her  own  manner  gave 
no  true  impression  of  h.er  mind,  and  so  she  supposed  it  must  be 
with  him.  A  faint  cloud  was  stealing  over  the  sunlight  of  her 
joy,  but  she  saw  it  not. 

And  the  day  drew  near  to  which  Blanche  so  earnestly  looked 
forward  with  mingled  hope  and  awe.  ]t  was  the  evening  before, 
and  having  returned  from  a  long  ride  with  her  father  ».ver  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  portions  of  his  property,  she  sat  down  on 
a  bank  which  overlooked  the  windings  of  ;he  river,  and  the 
opening  into  the  country  beyond. 

There  was  nothing  to  distui'b  the  repose  of  the  scene,  except 
the  distant  lowing  of  cattle  in  the  pastures,  and  the  dashing  of 
a  mountain  torrent,  which  escajiing  from  the  woody  dell  on  the 
opposite  side,  fell  sparkling  and  frothing  over  a  steep  broken 
clitf,  and  wound  its  way  amid  stones  and  mosses  till  it  was  lost 
in  the  deep  current  of  the  larger  stream. 

Blanche  rested  her  head  against  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  and  gave 
way  to  one  of  those  delicious  reveries  of  feeling  rather  than  of 
thought ;  which,  when  the  fancy  is  free,  and  the  heart  un- 
burdened by  care,  are  amongst  the  most  perfect  enjoyments  of 
our  early  years. 

The  loveliness  of  the  landscape  was  in  accordance  with  the 
tone  of  mind  which  she  had  been  endeavouring  to  attain  during 
the  day ;  and  when,  at  length  yielding  to  fatigue,  she  fell 
asleep,  the  images  which  haunted  her  dreams  were  pure  and 
holy  as  ner  waking  thoughts. 

A  few  minutes  afterwards,  there  was  the  sound  of  an  ap- 
proaching footstep ;  and,  advancing  from  the  shade  of  the 
shrubbery,  the  earl  stood  by  her  side. 

What  could  he  have  seen  in  a  countenance  so  fair  in  its 
youthful  purity,  to  make  him  start  and  sigh — and  then  gaze 
long  and  steadf;istly  with  a  frowning  brow,  and  a  mouth  quiver- 
ing with  agitation  ?  Was  it  that  in  those  features  he  saw  a 
resemblance  which  recalled  the  tale  of  his  b3"-gone  life ;  or  did 
he  read  the  visions  which  were  passing  before  the  eye  of  his 
8lee['ing  child,  and  shrink  from  the  conviction  that  the  hopes 


THE    earl's    daughter,  4l 

which  to  hor  were  all  in  all,  were  to  him  scarcely  more  than 
the  superstitions  of  an  age  of  darkness  ? 

Yet,  Lord  Rutherford  was  no  sceptic.  He  was  but  what 
thousands  have  been  before  him ;  in  name,  the  follower  of 
Christ — in  hdait,  the  slave  of  the  world.  Whatever  might  l)e 
his  own  indiiference  to  religion  he  had  no  desire  that  it  should 
be  shg^ed  by  his  daughter,  and  the  character  of  Lady  Blanche 
often  derived  a  peculiar  though  painful  interest  from  the  simple 
ardent  jjiety  which  occasionally  broke  forth  through  her  natural 
reserve ;  and  which,  to  the  earl's  refined  but  hackneyed  taste, 
gave  her  the  appearance  rather  of  a  being  from  another  sphere 
than  of  one  born  to  participate  in  the  vain  heartlessness  of 
fashionable  society.  He  could  admire,  though  he  could  not 
imitate ;  and  now,  as  he  watched  her,  so  calm,  and  peaceful,  and 
tranquilly  happy,  a  pang  of  envy  crossed  his  mind.  Such  peace 
as  hers,  even  were  it  delusive,  would  be  cheaply  purchased  at 
the  sacrifice  of  all  that  he  had  hitherto  valued.  Yet;,  it  was 
envy,  not  self-reproach;  and  the  next  moment  he  pictured 
her  such  as  he  intended  she  should  be — the  star  of  a  glittering 
assemblage — flattered,  courted,  idolized  ;  gathering  around  her 
all  that  was  most  attractive  in  grace  and  intellect ;  herself,  the 
centre  to  which  every  eye  would  be  directed  in  homage. 

But  the  earl's  countenance  changed.  In  imagination  there 
rose  up  before  him  the  still,  shrouded  form  of  one,  who  in  by- 
gone years  had  realized  much  that  he  desired  to  see  in  Blanche, 
but  Ujjon  whose  brow  the  sorrow  of  unrequited  affection  had 
set  its  indelible  stamp  ;  and  when  his  eye  again  dwelt  upon  the 
living  image  of  the  wife  whose  love  he  had  despised,  he  shud- 
dered, and  stooped  to  kiss  his  daughter's  forehead  with  super- 
stitious awe ;  and  a  passing  dread,  lest  the  features  which  bore 
the  impress  of  life  might"  but  chill  him  with  the  mocking 
beauty  of  death.  The  kiss  awoke  Blanche  from  her  short 
sleep  ;  and  the  earl,  hastily  recovering  liimself,  began  to  blame 
her  imprudence.  Jilanche  endeavoured  to  laugh  away  his 
fears,  but  proposed  to  return  to  the  castle,  as  she  had  an  en- 
gagt^ment  to  keep. 

•'  And  not  spare  me  a  few  minutes  ?"  said  the  earl,  with  a 
slight  tone  of  pique  ;  "  the  sun  will  have  set  soon,  and  then  we 
shall  have  no  temptation  to  stay." 

idanehe  trathered  up  the  folds  of  her  riding  habit,  and 
taking  her  father's  arm  they  pursued  their  walk  by  the  jiaili 
which  led  alonir  the  side  of  the  hill.     For  some  time  both  wen; 


42  THE      EAKL    S      D -A  U  G  II  T  E  K  . 

silent.  Blanclie  could  never  thoroughly  overcome  a  certain 
sense  of  restraint  in  her  father's  presence  ;  and  Lord  Rutherford, 
wrapt  in  his  own  thoughts,  was  contented  to  know  that  she 
was  with  him  without  seeking  for  conversation.  Blanche  was 
the  first  to  speak. 

"  I  never  knew,  till  now,"  she  said,  "  what  it  was,  thoroughly 
to  enjoy  beautiful  scenery.  At  St.  Ebbe's,  there  was  so  little  to 
see ;  but,  even  then,  I  used  to  fancy  there  must  be  an  exquisite 
charm  in  it." 

"  You  are  young,"  replied  the  earl ;  "  you  have  no  painful 
associations.  Wlien  you  have  reached  my  age  you  will  feel 
very  differently  about  all  beauty." 

"  Yet  some  feelings  of  pleasure  must  increase,"  replied  Blanche, 
more  gravely  than  usual  ;  "  the  best  and  highest." 

"  From  being  able  to  apjireciate  beauty  better,  you  mean  ; 
from  learning  to  look  at  it  with  an  artist's  eye  ?  But  that  is  a 
mistake  ;  our  greatest  enjoyments  are  those  which  we  never 
pause  to  analyse." 

"I  was  not  thinking  of  that  exactly,"  said  Blanche,  with 
hesitation. 

"  Of  what  then,  my  love  ?  What  do  you  call  the  best  and 
highest  pleasure  ?" 

Blanche  hesitated,  and  then  replied,  timidly,  as  if  doubtful  of 
the  manner  in  which  the  observation  would  be  received,  "  I 
suppose,  if  we  were  very  good,  we  should  be  grateful  for  beauty, 
as  peoi)le  are  for  favours  and  presents." 

Lord  Rutherford  became  suddenly  thoughtful.  "  You  are  a 
metaphysician,  Blanche,"  he  said,  after  a  pause;  "  that  was  not 
one  of  the  accomplishments  I  ex])ected  from  Mrs.  Howai-d." 

"  If  I  am,"  repUed  Bknche,  laughing  ;  "  it  is  certainly  with- 
out knowing  it." 

"You  are  one,  though.  I  have  discovered  a  lurking  taste  in 
you  before ;  and  if  you  really  have  a  fancy  for  the  subject,  we 
will  study  a  few  books  together  on  the  subject.  I  sliuuld  be 
sorry  for  you  to  have  prejudiced  notions.  Though  you  are  a 
woman,  a  little  deep  reading  will  do  you  no  harn)." 

Blanche  promised  to  read  anything  he  wished ;  though  she 
svill  disclaimed  any  love  for  metajihysics ;  and  the  earl  began  to 
enumerate  a  list  of  authors,  ending  with — 

"  But,  my  dear  Blanche,  until  you  have  read  a  little,  I  advise 
you  not  to  trouble  yourself  with  too  much  thinking.  You  will 
only  be  puzzletl,  and  it  can  lead  to  no  good.  Take  up  your 
music  and  drawing,  study  history  if  you  will,  and  we  will  have 


THE      EARLS      DAUGHTER.  43 

iuiiian  and  German  lessons  together;  but  don't  attempt  to  dwell 
upon  subjects  beyond  human  comprehension." 

Poor  Blanche  could  not  at  all  understand  the  reason  of  tliis 
speech ;  and  began  to  fancy  that  she  had  done  or  said  some- 
thing wrong.^ 

The  earl  instantly  remarked  her  change  of  manner,  and  said 
kindly^  "  I  would  not  for  the  world  find  foult  with  you,  my 
deal  ;  you  must  not  imagine  it ;  but  I  have  seen  the  mischief  of 
too  much  thought  with  some  minds,  and  you  have  been 
unusually  silent  the  last  two  days  !" 

"  It  was  not  that  kind  of  thought  which  made  me  silent," 
exclaimed  Blanche,  eagerly  ;  "  I  was  thinking  of — " 

"Cf  what? — there  can  be  no  thought,  which  you  would  not 
wish  me  to  know." 

Blanche  blushed  deeply  ;  she  would  willingly  have  sheltered 
hei-self  under  her  former  reserve,  though  at  the  same  time 
longing  to  break  down  the  barrier,  and  receive  the  sympathy 
which  even  then  she  could  not  doubt  of  obtaining.  The  earl 
evidently  expected  a  reply. 

Blanche  felt  herself  forced  to  speak,  and  began  ;  "  I  have  been 
thinking  ;  that  is,  I  have  been  trying  to  think  ; — one  ought  to 
prepare  oneself  for  to-morrow.  My  first  Communion,"  she 
added,  in  a  tone  which  scarcely  caught  the  earl's  ear. 

He  stopped  suddenly  in  his  walk.  "  Ah  !  yes  ;  quite  right. 
But  you  are  very  young,  my  dear." 

•'  ^'ot  too  young  ;  am  I  V  said  Blanche,  anxiously  ;  "  I  have 
been  confirmed." 

"  No,  not  if  you  wish  it ;  still,  it  is  not  right  to  force  any  one. 
ilrs.  Howard  was  always  rather  overstrained  in  her  ideas." 

"  Indeed,  indeed,  it  was  not  Mrs.  Howard  only ;  but  the 
rector  and  the  bishop,  and  every  one  said  it.  I  thought  it  was 
always  so,"  rephed  Blanche.  "Is  there  really  any  reason 
against  it  ?" 

The  earl  smiled.  ,  "  No  possible  reason,  my  dear  child  ;  but 
you  know  very  little  of  the  world,  and  I  don't  want  you  to  tie 
yourself  down  ;  and  in  fact,  my  love,  these  things  are  best  left 
to  every  one's  own  feelings.  If  you  like  it,  do  it  by  all  means ; 
only  don't  let  me  see  your  bright  face  clouded  again ;  it  makes 
me  uneasy." 

Poor  Blanche  felt  chilled  to  the  very  heart. 

But  her  father  liad  no  idea  of  the  eflect  of  his  speech,  and 
Continued,  "  It  might  have  been  more  pleasant  for  you  to  have 
waited  a  little.     1  am  expecting  your  aunt,  Lady  Charltoi> 


44  THE      EARLS     DAUGHTER. 

sliortly  ;  and  Sir  Hugh  and  your  two  cousins.  You  will  like  tc 
become  acquainted  with  them,  as  they  are  some  of  your  nearest 
connections." 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  exclaimed  Blanche,  relieved  at  finding  some 
thing  to  say.  "  Dear  mamma's  sister  !  I  am  sure  I  must  be 
fond  of  her." 

Lord  Rutherford's  tone  was  constrained,  as  he  answered, 
"  Only  her  half-sister ;  there  is  no  resemblance ;"  and  then  he 
stopped  suddenly,  and  there  was  a  long  pause. 

The  thoughts  of  Blanche  reverted  to  the  former  subject.  The 
visit  of  one  person  or  of  hundreds — of  relations  or  of  strangers 
— seemed  equally  indifferent  to  her  at  that  moment. 

They  had  reached  the  termination  of  the  path ;  and  the  earl, 
leaning  over  a  fence,  which  protected  the  edge  of  the  precipice, 
riveted  his  eyes  upon  the  stream,  and  appeared  lost  in  a  reverie. 

"  It  is  like  the  current  of  human  hfe,  is  it  not,  Blanche  ?"  he 
said,  at  length.  "  See  how  it  whirls  its  rapid  course ;  and  how 
tiie  light  froth,  and  the  fragments  of  the  bank,  are  borne  along 
by  it;  like  the  frothy  hopes  and  the  fleeting  ptleasures  of  the 
world.  And  think,  too,  how  little  we  know  of  the  end  to  which 
it  is  hastening." 

"  Is  it  not  travelling  towards  the  ocean,"  said  Blanche,  timidly ; 
"  as  we  are  all  travelling  towards  eternity  ?" 

Lord  Rutherford  raised  himself,  and  put  his  band  suddenly 
upon  her  shoulder — "  What  is  eternity,  Blanche  ?"  he  said. 
"  We  use  words  without  meaning,  when  we  speak  of  it." 

"  But,"  replied  Blanche,  and  notwithstanding  the  softness  of 
her  voice,  it  sounded  tremulous  in  its  earnestness  ;  "  we  are  told 
to  think  of  it,  and  it  must  be  for  our  happiness ;  for  this  world, 
the}"  say,  is  full  of  disappointment." 

"  They  say  !"  repeated  the  earl ;  "  then  you  have  never  found 
it  so  youreelf." 

"  I  have  been  very  happy,"  said  Blanche,  whilst  she  looked 
at  her  father  with  a  smile  of  afiection ;  but  it  was  followed  by 
a  sigh.     She  could  not  say,  "  I  am  happy." 

"  Yes,"  continued  the  earl,  thoughtfully,  "  you  are  standing, 
as  I  once  stood,  upon  a  spot  from  which  you  can  view  the  past 
without  regret,  and  the  future  without  fear.  For  you  it  may  be 
a  resting-place  for  years ;  though  for  me  it  was  but  a  point, 
•quitted  as  soon  as  reached,  and  to  which  I  could  never  return. 
Value  your  peace,  my  child,  whilst  you  have  it ;  for  it  is  vain 
to  hope  that  any  thoughts  of  eternity  will  restore  it  to  you 
when  it  is  once  gone." 


THE    earl's    dacguter.  45 

"But,  papa,"  answered  Blanche,  firinlj,  whilst  something 
within  her  own  mind  seemed  urging  her  to  overcome  her 
reserve  and  speak  more  directly,  "  even  now  I  can  feel  comfort 
from  such  thoughts.  I  have  been  ha]ipy,  because  I  have  always 
had  some  on^  to  love ;  but  though  I  know  that  the  happiness 
cannot  last,  1  can  bear  to  think  so,  and  even  to  look  forward  to 
a  tirao  when  I  may  be  left  quite  alone  ;  because  true  love  does 
not  seem  to  belong  to  earth,  but  to  eternity.  Is  it  not  true, 
then,  that  these  ideas  do  help  us  to  bear  trials  ?" 

Lord  Rutherford  made  no  answer;  he  withdrew  his  arm, 
threw  himself  upon  a  bench,  and  relapsed  into  silence.  Blanche 
was  frightened  at  her  own  temerity,  and  a  sense  of  indescriba- 
ble wretchedness  oppressed  her.  Iler  father's  principles,  she 
thought,  could  not  be  the  principles  of  a  Christian.  The  earl 
perceived  he  had  distressed  her,  and  starting  up  and  again 
drawing  her  arm  within  his,  said,  as  he  pursued  his  walk : — 

"  I  have  vexed  you,  my  dear  child.  Heaven  knows  how  un- 
willingly!  But  you  have  been  educated  in  retirement,  and 
your  life  has  been  made  up  of  dreams.  It  is  impossible  that 
you  should  understand  the  view  which  a  stern,  w^orn  man,  who 
has  borne  the  struggle  of  years,  takes  of  those  subjects,  which 
to  you  are  everything.  When  you  have  heard  them  discussed 
and  argued  -upon,  and  when  you  have  known  something  of 
men's  actions  as  well  as  of  their  creeds,  you  will  see  the  value  of 
your  fevourite  notions  more  truly.  They  may  be  important  to 
you,  but  they  will  not  bear  contact  with  the  world." 

"And  must  I  know  the  world,  papa  ?"  inquired  Blanche, 
with  difficulty  summoning  courage  to  answer.  "  I  would  much 
rather  live  here  alone  with  you." 

Lord  Rutherford  laughed. 

"  Mrs.  Howard  has  certainly  performed  her  duty  strietlv,"  he 
said.  "She  promised  to  educate  you  in  seclusion,  and  she  has 
kept  her  word.  But  have  you  no  wish  for  gaiety,  Blanche ; 
for  such  an  introduction  into  the  world  as  your  station  in  life 
offers  you  ?"         ' 

"  I  should  like  it,  dear  papa,"  replied  Blanche  ;  "  and  I  think 
of  it  very  often.  But  I  would  rather  stay  here  and  keep  my 
own  notions,  because  I  believe  they  will  make  me  better  than 
any  othei-s." 

"Well!"  exclaimed  the  earl,  carelessly,  "cherish  them  as 
long  as  you  can;  they  will  do  no  one  any  harm  but  yourself; 
only,  when  your  aunt  and  cousins  come,  I  prophesy  that  you 
will  think  less  about  then:." 


40  I'lIE      EARLS      DAUGHTER. 

Poor  Blanche  was  not  comforted  by  this  prospect. 

"  Then  I  shall  be  happier,  to-morrow,  with  you,  alone,  papa," 
she  said  pointedly  ;  anxious,  if  possible,  to  solve,  by  some  allu 
sion  to  the  first  topic  of  the  conversation,  the  painful  doubt 
whether  her  father  intended  to  join  with  her  in  the  service  of 
the  next  day.  Lord  Rutherford  did  not,  at  first,  see  that  she 
had  any  particular  meaning  in  her  words ;  for  the  subject 
referred  to  w;is  not  one  likely  long  to  remain  in  his  thoughts. 
When  however  it  occurred  to  him,  he  answered  hastily : — 

"You  must  talk  to  Mrs.  Wentwoith,  my  dear;  she  will 
understand  you  in  all  these  things  better  than  I  ob.'' 

"  I  don't  know  Mrs.  Wentworth  well,"  replied  Blanche, 
whilst  tears  rushed  to  her  eyes ;  "  and  there  is  no  one  I  love 
like  you." 

Lord  Rutherford  played  with  his  stick,  but  said  nothing 
more ;  and,  at  length,  when  he  saw  that  Blanche  was  again 
about  to  speak,  he  turned  suddenly  into  another  walk  and  left 
her.  And  then  Blanche  was  indeed  miserable.  The  sky  and 
the  woods,  the  rocks  and  the  river,  the  beauties  which  had 
before  entranced  her  with  delight — all  were  changed.  Their 
brightness  was  gone ;  the  spell  by  which  they  had  charmed 
her  was  destroyed.  She  was  alone ;  and  there  lived  not  the 
being  upon  earth- who  could  fill  the  void  which  that  one  con- 
versation had  caused  in  her  heart.  Who  could  recall  the  rever- 
ence and  holy  affection  which  had,  till  then,  formed  her  dream 
of  happiness  in  her  splendid  home  ?  Who  could  restore  the 
delusion  wliich  hitherto  she  had  cherished,  even  against  her 
own  secret  convictions  ? 

But  the  spirit  of  youth  is  too  buoyant  to  sink  at  once  under 
any  disappc'ntment,  however  severe.  It  is  the  succession  of 
griefs,  the  wearisome  days,  and  the  restless  nights  and  the  bit- 
terness of  long  deferred  hope,  which  at  length  will  bow  us  to 
the  dust ;  and  Blanche  had,  as  yet,  known  nothing  of  these. 
Her  elastic,  sanguine  spirit  again  suggested  the  thought  from 
which  she  had  before  found  comfort.  Her  father's  manner,  and 
even  liis  words,  might  be  no  true  index  to  his  mind.  He  had 
not  said  that  he  should  not  be  with  her ;  he  had  fully  allowed 
that  it  would  be  right  for  her  to  attend  the  service,  thou2;h  he 
seemed  to  fear  that  she  was  too  young.  Persons  had  different 
opinions  upon  these  subjects  ;  perhaps,  after  all,  she  had  misun- 
derstood him  ;  and,  soothed  by  the  idea,  Blanclae's  countenance 
resumed,  in  some  degree,  its  former  serenity.  The  suspense, 
b(>vvcvcr,  still  rested  as  a  weight  upon  her  heart.     She  met  her 


TIIK      EARLS      DAUGHTER.  47 

father  at  dinner,  and  found  herself  almost  luiconsciousiy 
watchinir  his  looks,  and  weighing  his  words  in  the  faint  hope 
of  learning  from  them  something  more  of  that  inner  world  of 
jirincijiles  and  motives  upon  which  all  her  happiness  seemed  to 
depend.  But  she  learnt  nothing.  The  earl  was  silent  and  pre- 
occupied, and^she  dared  not  ask  him  the  cause.  When  the 
castle  clock  struck  ten,  Blanche,  as  was  her  custom,  rose  to 
retire  t6  rest.  Then,  more  than  ever,  she  missed  the  prayers 
which  had  closed  the  evenings  at  St.  Ebbe's.  Hitherto  she  had 
accounted  for  the  omission  b}'  supptsing,  either  that  her  father 
bad  some  reason  for  delay  until  they  had  been  longer  settled  at 
home  ;  or  that  it  was  not  a  foreign  custom,  and  therefore  he 
might  not  think  of  it  till  some  other  person  suggested  it :  but 
now  it  appeared  too  tiuly  an  indication  of  the  neglect  of  all  reli- 
gious forms,  except  that  which  the  world  has  thought  fit  to 
honour  with  respect,  the  outward  observance  of  the  day  of  rest. 

Blanche  leant  over  her  father's  chair,  and  kissed  his  forehead 
again  and  again,  as  was  her  wont.  Her  love  was  not  chilled, 
but  it  was  altered.  Doubt  was  mingled  with  it,  and  dread,  and 
the  fond  clinging  of  the  heart  to  happiness,  which  seems  about 
to  pass  away.  The  "cirl  looked  up  from  his  book,  and  as  he 
took  her  trembling  jand  in  his,  lie  said, — 

"  We  have, been  bad  companions,  to-night,  Blanche  :  are  you 
ti'-ed  of  me  ?" 

A  fear  of  losing  self-command  made  Blanche  pause  before 
answering.  Lord  Rutherford  moved  his  chair,  that  he  might 
discover  the  reason  ;  but  she  had  turned  her  head  aside. 

"  You  shall  have  other  amusements  soon,"  continued  the  earl, 
and  an  accent  of  annoyance  marked  his  words. 

"  Oh,  no,  papa  !     1  want  nothing — no  amusements." 

"  But  what  then  ?     What  do  you  want «" 

Blanche  was  pained  at  her  own  weakness  ;  she  could  only 
distress  her  father  by  showing  her  feelings,  since  to  explain  them 
was  impossible. 

"I  wish  for  one  thing,  papa,"  she  said  in  a  light,  gav  tone, 
whilst  her  lip  quivered  with  agitation,  "  that  you  should  kiss  me 
ami  say  good  night." 

The  earl  pressed  her  to  liis  heart,  and  whispered,  "  God  bless 

you   now  and  ever,  my   own  precious   child  ;"'    and  Blanche 

retreated  to  her  room,  once  more  happy.     Her  father  did  then 

consider  the  blessing   of  God   the  one   first  object  of  desire. 

Surely,  therefore,  he  must  intend  to.  seek  it  Ayhere  especially  i( 

is  bestowed. 

3 


48  TIIK      EARLS      DAUGHTER, 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

We  close  our  eyes  in  peace,  and  we  re-open  them  to  sorro\T 
and  care.  It  is  the  lot,  sooner  or  later,  of  all ;  the  fulfilment 
of  the  earthly  curse  denounced  upon  our  first  parents,  and  from 
it  there  is  no  escape.  We  may,  perhaps,  have  felt,  upon  lying 
down  to  rest — the  anxieties  of  the  day  at  an  end,  the  weariness 
of  exhausted  nature  inviting  us  to  repose,  and  the  heart  calmed 
by  repentance,  and  the  blessed  trust  in  forgiveness  and 
protection, — that  if  it  were  then  permitted  for  the  Angel  of 
Death  to  call  us  to  our  long,  last  sleep  ;  the  summons,  awful 
though  it  must  ever  be,  would  be  hailed  rather  as  a  visitation 
of  mercy,  than  as  an  event  to  be  shrunk  from  in  alarm.  But 
God  "  seeth  not  as  man  seeth."  He  views  the  sins  dormant 
but  not  destroyed  ;  the  passion  lulled  but  not  extinguished.  He 
beholds  us  unfit  for  the  kingdom  of  His  holiness,  and  knows 
the  warfare  which  must  be  endured,  before  the  powers  of  a 
regenerate  nature  can  fully  triumph  over  the  temptations  of 
Satan.  And  if,  at  times.  He  does  in  mercy  make  us  "  to  lie 
down  in  green  pastures,  and  lead  us  beside  the  still  waters,"  it  is 
only  that  by  such  seasons  of  refreshment  we  may  gather 
strength  for  the  battle,  which  is  to  "  bring  every  thought  into 
captivity  to  the  obedience  of  Christ." 

When  Blanche  entered  Rutherford  Church,  the  ensuing  day, 
she  felt  but  little  of  the  peace  which  had  been  with  her  when 
she  lay  down  to  rest  at  night.  A  breakfast  ttte-a-tMe  with  the 
earl,  and  a  few  remarks  during  their  short  walk  from  the  castle 
to  the  village,  had  again  aroused  her  distrust.  Many  such 
remarks  had  been  made  before,  but  they  had  fallen  on  an 
unheeding  ear,  or  rather  on  one  which  did  not  understand, 
because  it  would  not  suspect  evil.  Now,  the  petty  indications 
of  motives  and  feeling,  which  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  the  most 
practised  art  to  conceal,  were  as  daggers  to  her  heart,  for  they 
struck  upon  the  points  on  which  alone  her  earthly  happiness  was 
then  vulnerable. 

At  any  time  a  doubt  which  affected  her  father's  principles 
must  have  been  jwignantly  felt  ;  but  on  no  other  occasion  could 
It  have  caused  so  much  suftering.  For  Blanche  had  striven 
numbly  and  earnestly  to  realise  the  awfulness  of  that  most  holy 
service  in  which  she  was  then,  for  the  first  time,  to  be  permitted 
to  join.     Slie  had  prayed  and  watched  against    the    entrance 


THE    earl's    daughter.  49 

of  erery  unlinllowed  or  worldly  thouglit,  and  bad  dedicated 
herself  to  her  Saviour  with  all  the  warmth  and  sincerity  of 
youthful  devo^edness.  At  such  a  moment,  even  the  purest  of 
earthly  affections  mi^ht  have  been  deemed  intrusive  ;  and  yet, 
when  she  kLgit  in  the  temple  of  God,  and  bowed  her  head  in 
reverence,  and  opened  her  lips  in  prayer,  there  arose  in  her 
heart,  not  feelings  of  faith  and  hope,  but  of  sadness  and  fear. 
The  words  of  confession  were  repeated,  but  the  earl's  voice  at 
her  side  pro..iounced  the  same  language  in  a  tone  of  proud 
indifference,  and  Blanche  forgot  the  repentance  necessary  for  her 
own  sins,  in  anguish  lest  he  should  be  insensible  tc  his.  And 
praises,  and  thanksgivings,  and  intercessions  were  uttered  with  a 
wandering  mind  ;  and  the  solemn  declarations  of  Scripture 
received  but  a  half  attention  ;  whilst  she  caught,  as  if  by  fasci- 
nation, her  fa'her's  restless  eye  and  listless  posture,  and  then 
turned  in  wetchedness  to  liCTself,  to  discover  that  she  also, 
though  not  in  like  manner,  was  sinning  against  God.  There 
was  a  painful  struggle  in  her  heart  whilst  going  through  the 
usual  service.  To  be  distracted  then,  seemed  a  miserable 
evidence  of  weakness  and  insincerity  ;  and  to  present  herself 
before  God  with  thoughts  clinging  to  earth,  a  fearful  presump- 
tion. Once  ?c  seemed  easier  and  better  to  delay, — to  wait  for 
another  oppojtunity, — to  risk  anything  rather  than  offer  a 
divided  heart  ;  but  at  that  moment  the  voice  of  the  preacher 
spoke  of  Him,  who  "in  that  He  Himself  hath  suffered,  being 
tempted,  is  i^ble  to  succour  them  that  are  tempted  ;"  and 
instead  of  gi"ing  away  to  despondency,  Blanche  prayed  the 
more  ferventl>  to  be  pardoned  and  assisted,  whilst  she  strove 
again  to  recall  her  scattered  thoughts.  The  last  words  of  the 
sermon  were  ended  ;  the  concluding  prayers  were  said  ;  there 
was  a  solemn  stillness  in  the  church,  followed  by  the  rush  of 
movement  and  departing  footsteps.  No  tones  of  joy  or  praise 
were  heard  whilst  one  by  one  they,  who  were  unwilling  or 
unable  to  ren'ain,  left  the  congregation;  but  silently  and  hastily 
they  poured  fortli  into  the  open  air, — some,  it  might  be,  to 
urieve  for  the  blessing  of  which  they  felt  themselves  unfitted  to 
)>artake  ;  but  too  many  to  stifle  the  reproaches  of  conscience  in 
tlie  cares  and  follies  of  the  world. 

l>lanche  looked  at  her  father,  as  he  seated  himself  by  her 
iide,  and  her  heart  bounded  with  joy ;  but,  as  the  church  be- 
came more  emi)ty,  the  earl  rose,  and  stood  for  a  few  instants 
w'th  his  hat  'u  his  hand,  and  when  the  way  of  retreat  v/a.s  at 


50  rilE      EARLS      DAUGHTER. 

last  opened  witliout  fear  of  mixing  himself  'witli  the  crowd',  he, 
too,  followed  the  common  example. 

And  the  door  was  closed. 

It  was  a  moment  of  bitter,  most  bitter  sorrow ; — bej'ond  it 
we  may  not  look ;  but  when  Blanche  left  the  church  she  uo 
lono-er  felt  that  she  was  alone. 


CUAPTER  IX. 


"  Lady  Blanche  is  late  in  coming  to  you  this  .norning  ;  is 
she  not,  Eleanor  ?"  said  Mrs.  Wentwor  Ji,  as  the  luncheon-bell 
rang,  and  little  Susan  ran  away  to  prepare  for  what  was  to  bo 
her  dinner. 

"  Rather,  I  think,"  was  the  reply  ;  "  but  Blanche  is  never  quite 
mistress  of  her  own  time.  Her  father  is  so  uncertain,  and  will 
make  her  do  the  very  things  she  haf-  determined  not  to  do. 
lie  may  have  taken  her  for  a  ride,  as  likely  as  not." 

"  Strange,  certainly,"  said  Mi-s.  Wertworth,  musingly,  "  that 
when  a  man  like  Lord  Rutherford  devotes  himself  to  the  happi- 
ness of  his  daughter,  he  should  man;.ge  to  do  just  the  very 
things  she  does  not  like." 

"  Oh  !  indeed,  mamma  !"  exclaimed  Eleanor  ;  "  I  do  think 
you  are  wrong  there.  Blanche  does  like  most  things  which  her 
father  proposes  ;  the  only  worry  is,  ihat  they  come  at  the 
wrong  time." 

"  And  does  she  like,  then,  the  prospect  of  having  the  castle 
filled  with  visitors,  and  of  gaieties  goino^  on  continually  ?"  in- 
quired Mrs.  AVentworth,  with  a  slight  tone  of  asperity,  which 
suited  but  little  with  her  usual  gentlene'^s. 

'•  Yes,  very  much,"  replied  Eleanor.  "  Lady  Charlton  is  a 
delightful  person  so  every  one  declare:^.  And  it  will  be  very 
nice  for  me,  too." 

Mrs.  Wentworth  seemed  rather  discomposed.  "  Yoii  must 
remember,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "  that  what  suits  Lady  Blanche 
will  not  suit  you.     Your  line  of  duties  vv'll  be  totally  different." 

"  Oh  !  yes,  of  course,  mamma,"  and  Eleanor  coloured,  and  en- 
deavoured to  assume  an  indifferent  air  :  "  but  you  know  there 
is  no  one  whom  Blanche  loves  as  she  does  me ;  and  she  never 
will  enjoy  anything  if  I  am  not  with  hei." 

"  Then  I  am  afraid  she  will  pass  a  very  unhappy  I'.fe  ;  for  you 
can  be  with  her  but  seldom  at  the  best." 


THE    earl's    daughter.  51 

"  It  is  ndt  exactly  the  being  toother,  but  the  feeling  that  we 
a-e  near,  and  undei-stand  each  other,  and  can  compare  opinion^, 
which  is  the  pleasure  ; — and — " 

*'  Well,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Wentworth,  "  compare  opinions  if 
you  like  it,  an>l  sympathise  with  and  love  each  other  ;  I  should 
be  very  sorry  if  you  did  not :  but  that  does  not  imply  the  ne- 
cessity of  meeting  every  day,  especially  now." 

"  You  are  afraid  for  me,  mamma,"  said  Eleanor,  laughing. 
"  You  think  I  shall  become  dissipated,  and  forget  Susan,  and 
the  school,  and  old  Nanny  Marshall,  and  the  almshouse 
women." 

"  I  have  no  cause  to  doubt  you,  my  love,"  replied  ISIrs.  Went- 
worth affectionately ;  "  but  it  is  scarcely  strange  that  I  should 
have  some  misgivings  about  every  society  of  which  Lord 
Rutherford  is  the  head." 

Mrs.  Wentworth  spoke  quickly,  and  Eleanor  looked  up  in 
surprise.  But  her  mother's  foce  betrayed  no  particular  feehng ; 
it  was  even  more  placid  than  before,  as  she  added,  "  You  can 
scarcely  have  failed  to  discover  that  he  is  not  the  most  fitting 
person  for  the  guardianship  of  a  young,  enthusiastic,  interesting 
girl  like  Lady  Blanche." 

"  He  would  spoil  her,  if  she  could  be  spoilt,"  said  Eleanor 
carelessl\^ 

"  Yes";  he  would  spoil  her,"  repeated  Mrs.  Wentworth. 
"  lie  would  infuse  into  her  mind  low  worldly  notions  ;  and' 
make  her  think  much  of  fashion  and  ultra-refinement,  and  the 
admiration  of  his  own  peculiar  circle  ;  and  if  she  pleases  him  he 
will  idolise  her,  and  if  not — " 

"  He  can  never  cease  to  love  her,"  said  Eleanor. 

Mrs.  Wentworth  was  silent.  The  sudden  burst  of  feeling 
was  over,  and  she  had  relapsed  into  her  former  indifference. 

"  Blanche  is  very  hke  her  mother's  picture,"  observed 
Eleanor. 

"  Yes,  very,"  replied  ]Mrs.  Wentworth ;  "  but  it  is  not  of  her 
that  I  am  thinkin'g  now,  Eleanor.  No  one  can  see  her  indeed 
without  feeling  most  deeply  for  her ;  but  it  is  you  who  are  my 
ciiarcre,  my  delight." 

Eleanor  smiled,  and  as  she  drew  near  her  mother's  chair,  ar  d 
oent  over  it  to  kiss  her,  she  said,  "  And  I  shall  be  so  always." 

Mrs.  Wentworth  shook  her  head.  "  Ah  !  Eleanor,  that  is 
your  stumbling-block ;  confidence  in  yourself." 

"  But  I  have  begun  well ;  have  1  not,  mamma  ?  Just  re- 
member how  steady  and  regular  I  have  been  ever  since  I  came 


52  THE    earl's    daughter. 

lioino ;  and  how  much  you  say  yourself  that  Susan  is  improved 
And  the  old  almshouse  women,  you  should  have  heard  yester- 
day all  the  civil  things  they  said  !  You  must  not  distrust  me 
more  than  any  one  else.  Please,  don't  look  so  grave,  and  con- 
jure up  such  a  castle  spectre." 

"  Ah !  if  it  were  only  a  spectre  ?  But,  Eleanor,  I  can  look 
back  many  years.  I  know  what  the  tone  of  society  used  to  be 
at  Rutherford,  and  I  see  no  possible  reason  for  supposing  that  it 
will  be  different  now." 

"  You  were  not  injured  by  it,  mamma,"  said  Eleanor  ;  "  and 
why  should  I  be  «" 

Mrs.  VVentworth  sighed,  "  I  had  many  safeguards,"  she  said : 
"yet,  I  will  not  say  that  I  was  not  injured.  There  was  only 
one  over  whom  evil  seemed  to  have  no  power." 

"  The  countess,"  said  Eleanor,  inquiringly. 

"  Yes ;  she  was  indeed  too  heavenly-minded  to  be  approached 
by  any  ordinary  influence  ;  and  " — but  Mrs.  VVentworth  stopped, 
as  if  unwilling  to  continue  the  subject. 

"  Mamnja,"  said  Eleanor,  "  Lord  Rutherford  is  very  fond  of 
Blanche ;  was  he  very  fond  of  his  wife  ?" 

The  consciousness  that  luncheon  was  ready  appeared  suddenly 
to  have  crossed  Mrs.  Wentworth's  mind,  for  she  did  not  give  a 
direct  reply  ;  but  merely  saying,  that  Susan  would  be  tired  of 
waiting  for  her  dinner,  she  went  away,  and  Eleanor  was  left  to 
answer  for  herself  as  best  she  might  the  question  which  had 
lately  become  one  of  considerable  interest.  Before,  however, 
she  had  satisfied  herself,  her  meditations  were  broken  in  upon 
by  the  entrance  of  her  father  and  Lady  Blanche. 

"  Reposing  from  the  fatigues  of  instruction,  I  suspect, 
Eleanor,"  exclaimed  Blanche,  gaily.  "Has  Susan  been  a  very 
naughty  child  ?" 

"  Reposing  from  the  weariness  of  disappointment  rather," 
replied  Eleanor.     "  You  were  to  have  been  here  an  hour  ago." 

"  So  I  was  ;  but  it  is  ])apa's  fault.  He  would  come  and  sit 
with  me ;  and  he  read  to  me  part  of  the  time,  and  then  we 
talked,  and  at  last  the  post  came  in,  and  I  had  to  write  in  a 
great  hurry  to  my  aunt,  who  is  to  be  here  the  day  after  to- 
morrow." 

"  Indeed  !  Is  Lady  Charlton  coming  so  soon  ?"  inquired 
Dr.  "VVentworth. 

"  Yes,"  so  she  says,  "  if  Sir  Hugh  feels  himself  equal  to  the 
journey  ;  but  slie  writes  as  if  he  was  very  much  out  of  health. 
But  do  you  know  my  aunt  ?" 


THE      earl's     DAUGHTER.  63 

"  I  caivt  toll,"  said  Dr.  Wentworth,  rather  bluntly. 

Blanche  and  Eleanor  laughed,  and  begged  for  an  explanation, 

•'  Why,  it  is  rather  the  case  of  the  Irishman  and  bis  tin- 
kettle  ;  which  he  declared  could  not  be  lost,  because  he  knew 
where  it  was,— at  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  My  knowledge  of 
Lady  Charlton  is  about  as  valuable.  Know  her  I  do ;  inasmuch 
as  I  have  spoken  to  her  often,  and  even  dined  in  company  with 
her  some  sixteen  or  eighteen  years  ago;  but  time  is  very 
like  the  sea ;  you  can  see  through  it,  but  you  cannot  grasp  what 
you  are  looking  at.  After  all,  it  may  only  be  Lady  Charlton's 
shadow,  which  I  think  I  know." 

"I  know  exactly  what  she  is  lik3  in  appearance,"  said 
Blanche;  "tall  and  thin,  dark  hair  and  eyes,  very  elegant 
and—" 

"  Fascinating,"  added  Dr.  Wentworth. 

"  Yes,  fascinating  ;  that  is  precisely  the  word  papa  used." 

"  And  your  cousins,  I  suppose,  are  fascinating  too  ?"  said 
Eleanor,  in  a  constrained  voice. 

"  No  one  knows  anything  about  them,  except  that  poor 
Maude  is  an  invalid,  and  that  they  have  been  educated  abroad." 

"  Oh !  I  remember,"  exclaimed  Eleanor ;  "  Charles  knew 
them,  I  am  sure !  he  said  he  bad  made  acquaintance  with  some 
relations  of  yx)urs  at  Florence.  It  was  at  a  ball,  I  think,  they 
met,  and  then  they  were  at  a  great  many  gay  i)arties  together." 

"  A  great  many  too  many,"  muttered  l3r.  Wentworth  in  an 
under  tone. 

"  That  was  a  twelvemonth  ago,  papa,"  said  Eleanor.  "It  is 
not  quite  fair  upon  Charles,  is  it,  Blanche,  to  quarrel  with  him 
for  hist  year's  follies  ?"  • 

"  I  quarrel  with  no  one,  Eleanor,"  re] tiled  Dr.  Wentworth, 
very  gravely ;  "  but  we  will  not  keep  Lady  Blanche  waiting ;" 
and  he  led  the  way  to  the  dining-room.  Blanche  followed,  with 
the  feeling  that  her  original  distaste  to  Mr.  Wentworth  had 
received  some  increase  ;  yet  she  blamed  herself  for  it,  and  in 
order  to  conqufer  her  prejudice,  paid  particular  attention 
wlum  other  allusions  w^ere  made  to  him  in  the  course  of  her  visit, 
in  the  hope  of  receiving  more  satisfactory  answers.  But  to  her 
surprise,  she  found  that  Dr.  Wentworth,  who,  even  in  his  most 
courteous  moods,  was  short  and  straight-forward  in  manner,  wa-, 
when  this  subject  was  ajiproached,  so  abrupt  as  instantly  to  stop 
the  conversation.  It  was  clear  that  his  son  was  not  at  that 
Dioment  perfectly  in  his  favour. 

This  afternoon  was  to  be  devoted  to  the  village,  for  Lord 


THE      EARL'S      DAUGHTEH, 


Rutlicrford  was  oblipjed  to  be  absent  the  greater  part  of  the  day, 
and  l)lanche  generally  arranged  her  duties  in  such  a  way  as  to 
give  him  always  the  lirst  place  in  her  attention.  Under 
Dr.  Wentworth's  guidance  she  had  taken  into  her  special  charge 
a  certain  number  of  the  poor,  principally  the  aged  and  infirm, 
to  whom  her  presence  was  almost  as  an  angel's  visit;  so  new 
and  strange  did  it  seem  that  one  so  young  and  so  far  removed 
from  themselves,  should  take  a  pei-sonal  interest  in  their  comfort. 
A  few  there  were,  indeed,  who  remembered  the  time  when  the 
countess  had  occupied  herself  in  a  similar  manner,  and  who 
regarded  Lady  Blanche  with  a  degree  of  compassionate  affection, 
which  mingled  with  their  respect  as  tliey  noticed  the  resemblance 
to  her  mother.  From  them  it  was  that  Blanche  heard  many 
little  traits  of  the  countess's  character,  which  she  could  have 
learnt  from  no  other  source  ;  and  they  were  treasured  in  her 
memory,  and  fondly  dwelt  upon  as  the  touches  which  were  to 
mark  more  vividly  the  outline  of  her  mother's  image.  Yet, 
when  all  had  been  repeated,  and  she  believed  that  she  had 
gained  a  clear  knowledge  of  what  the  countess  must  have  been, 
there  still  remained  an  undefined  doubt  of  something  untold. 
Reverence  and  love  were  ever  associated  with  her  name  by  all 
who  spoke  of  her  ;  but  pity  was  added  also ;  and  why,  Blanche 
could  not  understand.  For  it  was  not  the  ])ity  which  is 
bestowed  so  lavishly  and  unthinkingly,  by  the  living  who  are 
toiling  through  this  weary  ^vor]d  upon  the  dead  who  have 
entered  upon  their  rest,  but  rather  that  which  must  ever  be  felt 
for  those  whom  neither  high  station,  nor  wealth,  nor  even 
goodness,  have  shielded  from  severe  trial.  Blanche  was  sure 
that  her  mother  ought  to  have  been  happy,  but  she  could  not 
believe  that  she  had  been  so.  As  she  listened  to  the  cottagers' 
oft-told  tales,  she  fancied  that  it  was  only  a  natural  interest 
whi?h  made  her  listen  so  intently  for  all  they  could  tell;  but, 
if  she  had  been  as  careful  an  anatomist  of  her  feelings  as  she 
was  of  her  faults,  she  might  have  perceived  that  this  longing 
desire  to  know  more  of  the  history  of  the  countess's  daily  life 
was  almost  always  aroused  after  conversations  with  her  father, 
which  were  now  very  frequent. 

It  is  the  gift  of  a  superior  mind  to  bring  out  the  latent  powers 
of  others ;  and  Lord  Rutherford's  constant  intercourse  with  his 
daughter  had  done  more  than  the  most  unwearied  study 
towards  maturing  her  judgment,  and  enlarging  her  ideas  upon 
all  worldly  subjects.  Blanche  had  lived  in  reality  months 
Instead  of  weeks  at  the  castle,  and  every  day  brought  some 


THE    ea.rl's     daughter.  55 

fr(r*h  evidence  to  the  eaiTs  mind  of  her  quick  intellect  and 
refined  taste.  He  delighted  in  engaging  her  in  an  argument, 
and  seeing  the  ease  with,  n-hich  she  would  pursue  her  own  train 
of  thought,  whilst  fully  comprehending  his ;  and  the  graceful 
candour  with  which,  wh^n  once  convinced  of  error,  she  yielded 
ber  point  and  begged  for  further  instruction.  He  was  more 
and  more  satisfied,  more  c^nd  more  convinced  that  Mrs.  Howard 
had  educated  her  well.  And  Blanche  ?  Alas  !  how  little  can 
we  read  of  the  secrets  of  ibe  heart !  How  selfisJi  and  blind  are 
we,  even  in  our  love  ! 

If  Lord  Rutherford  had  been  asked  whether  he  had  succeeded 
ill  reudeiing  his  daughter  happy,  he  would  have  answered, 
without  a  moment's  hesitation,  perfectly.  She  had  employ- 
rr.ents,  amusements,  interests,  luxuries,  friends  ;  and,  to  crown 
the  whole,  himself:  and  though  free  from  the  petty  conceit  of 
an  inferior  intellect,  which  believes  that  it  is  all  which  it  desires 
to  be,  Lord  Rutherford  could  not  but  1)e  conscious  that  the 
powers  of  entertainment  which  had  excited  the  admiration  of 
the  first  circles,  both  in  England  and  on  the  continent,  must  be 
more  than  equal  to  the  ta*k  of  whiliiig  away  the  leisure  hours 
of  a  young  girl,  w-hose  knowledge  of  the  world  was  confined  to 
the  immediate  neighbourhood  of  the  place  of  her  education. 
And  he  thought  correctly.  Blanche  was  amused,  excited,  inter- 
ested still — but  the  arrc'C'  had  entered  into  her  heart;  and 
when  she  left  her  father's  presence,  her  smiles  too  often 
vanished,  whilst  she  sough*:  the  solitude  of  her  own  chamber,  to 
grieve  over  the  bitterness  of  her  disappointment. 

It  was  then  that  she  most  thought  of  her  mother.  Had  it 
been  the  same  with  her  ?  Had  she  also  loved,  and  reverenced, 
and  dreamt  a  dream  of  perfection ;  and  awoke  to  find  it  but 
delusion  ?  Or  had  she,  like  the  earl,  been  gifted  with  the 
highest  of  earthly  gifts,  while  destitute  of  that  "  pearl  of  great 
price,"  which  alone  could  be  her  ornament  in  Heaven  ?  This, 
Blanche  could  not  think.  AH  that  she  heard  and  saw — the 
letters,  the  favourife  books,  the  kind  acts  which  w^ere  so  thank- 
fully remembered,  showed  plainly  that  the  Countess  of  Ruther- 
ford had  been  in  her  inmost  heart  a  Christian;  and  then,  how 
great  must  have  been  the  pang  at  finding  herself  united  to  one 
whose  heart  was  centred  jv  the  world!  Blanche  thought  upon 
the  subject  till  it  haunted  her  as  a  spectral  form,  mixing  with 
her  imaginations  by  day  Pud  night ;  and,  if  forgotten  for  a 
time,  recalled  Vjy  some  accidental  occurrence  as  ])ainfully  as  il 
it  had  never  passed  away.     Yet  the  fear  could  not  be  named, — 


56  THE    earl's    daughter. 

cortaiuly  iKjt  to  Eleanor,  and  scarcely  even  to  Mrs.  Howard,  wLc 
had  been  niiich  sejiarated  from  the  Countess  bo^h  before  and 
after  her  marriage,  and  had  never  hinted  a  doubt  of  her  happi- 
ness. The  mention  of  it  would  have  involved  ac  acknowledg- 
ment of  disappointment  in  her  father,  which  BLmche  shrank 
from  allowing  to  herself,  and  could  not  have  borne  to  embody  in 
words ;  though  she  often  reproached  herself  fv^r  a  want  of 
sincerity  in  withholding  the  confidence  which  sLe  knew  w;is 
expected.  There  was  one  person,  indeed,  from  whom  much 
might  be  learnt ;  but  how  was  the  inquiry  to  be  made  ?  Mrs. 
'Ventworth,  she  had  reason  to  believe,  knew  all  the  circum- 
stances of  her  mother's  history  ;  but  Blanche  haa  already  asked 
all  the  questions  which  she  dared,  and  had  learnt  the  principal 
events,  and  many  additional  traits  of  habit  and  character  ;  and 
Mrs.  Wentworth  was  not  a  person  from  whom  to  seek  further 
confidence.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  sincerity,  out  no  open- 
ness in  her  disposition :  she  seldom  encouraged  conversation, 
and  when  she  did,  it  was  confined  to  facts, — serious  and 
important,  and  often  placed  in  a  new  and  striking  light, — but 
still  merely  facts.  Her  own  feelings  she  left  to  be  discovered 
by  inference;  and  Blanche,  accustomed  to  jVI^'s.  Howard's 
warmth  of  expression,  felt  chilled  even  by  her  kindness,  and 
would  frequently  have  preferred  silence  to  a  succesrion  of  details, 
which  might  have  aroused  the  intensest  interest,  but  for  the 
cold  way  in  which  they  were  narratecL  There  w  as  one  hope, 
however,  still  to  rest  upon  ;  Lady  Charlton  wai  described  by 
every  one  to  be  a  most  charming  person,  sometuing  like  the 
countess  in  appearance,  and  with  a  manner  so  winning  that  no 
one  could  withstand  it.  Even  Mrs.  AVentworth  had  once  been 
roused  into  a  momentary  enthusiasm  when  Sji'^aking  of  her 
qualifications  as  an  agreeable  companion,  and  Blrnche  already 
clung  to  the  idea,  that  in  her  aunt  she  might  fiiu^  a  friend  who 
v^-oiild  throw  light  upon  the  subject  which  distressed  her  mind, 
without  requii-ing  her  to  state  the  fears  whio'i  she  would 
willingly  have  hidden  from  her  own  heart 


CHAPTER  X. 

LoitD  Rutherford  perceived,  with  great  satisfaction,  the 
pleasure  with  which  Blanche  looked  forward  to  lier  aunt's  visit. 
Ue  had  resolved  that  his  sister-in-law  should  be  surprised  and 


THE    earl's    daughter.  57 

eliannod  by  his  daughter's  elegance  and  beauty ;  and  he  wol" 
knew  the  effect  which  Blanche's  simple,  eager  cordiality  would 
have  upon  one  who  had  so  long  been  accustomed  to  the  spark- 
ling frigidity  of  the  fashionable  world.  Blanche  was  always 
courteous,  always  attentive ;  but,  when  her  feelings  were 
interested,  she''was  attractive  far  beyond  any  person  whom  he 
had  ever  seen.  He  remained  at  home  the  whole  of  the  day  on 
which  "liady  Charlton  was  expected,  under  the  pretence — 
perhaps  even  the  belief — that  it  would  be  a  great  mark  of 
netrlect  if  he  were  to  run  the  least  risk  of  not  being  ready  to 
receive  his  guests.  "  Sir  Hugh  was  so  unwell,  \nd  they  had 
not  met  since  they  parted  last  year  in  Italy  ;  and  Blanche 
would  feel  awkward  in  probably  having  to  receive  her  cousins 
alone.  True,  they  could  not  possibly  arrive  before  five  r 'clock, 
and  he  had  an  engagement,  at  two,  in  a  neighbouring  vJlage ; 
but  there  might  be  some  mistake  ;  they  might  come  before, — 
at  any  rate  it  was  safe,  and  he  would  send  an  excuse  ;"  and  then 
the  earl's  eye  wandered  to  Blanche,  who  was  seated  at  her 
drawing-frame,  and  he  begged  her  to  give  him  one  air  upon  the 
harp — his  favourite.  Blanche's  face  lit  up  with  a  smile  of 
pleasure, — and  the  earl  felt  the  time  only  too  short,  as  he  leant 
back  upon  the  sofa,  his  eye  delighting  in  his  child's  grace,  and 
his  ear  drinking  in  the  sweet  sounds  which  her  talent  was 
producing.  It  w;is  perfect  human  enjoyment ;  for  at  that 
moment  no  memories  awoke  to  mar  it. 

"  We  will  walk  down  the  carriage  drive,  if  you  like  it,  my 
love,"  he  said,  as  the  timejiiece  struck  the  quarter  before  five; 
"  tliese  spare  minutes  are  always  very  tedious." 

Blanclie  disappeared  as  soon  as  the  suggestion  was  made ; 
her  father's  marked  attention  to  her  wishes  had  made  her  scru- 
pulnusly  mindful  of  his.  Lord  Rutherford's  careful  inspection 
wIk-.i  she  returned,  was  not  perceived ;  but  it  was  bestowed 
with  the  wish  to  decide  whether  she  would  be  less  likely  to 
ai)])ear  to  advantage  in  her  walking  than  in  her  morning  dress. 
Ladv  Charlton's  eye  was  fostidiously  correct  in  dress,  and  it  was 
possible  that  she  might  be  struck  by  some  deficiency  of  which 
Blanche  was  unconscious.  But  the  straw  bonnet  and  shawl 
di-aiined  criticism,  and  Lord  llutherfoi-d  smiled  at  his  own 
doubts.  The  afternoon  was  very  still,  but  the  atmos]ihere  was 
clear,  and  the  sky  blue  and  cloudless.  Blanche  felt  the  soften- 
ing, soothing  influence  of  nature's  purity  and  beauty ;  and  the 
over  interest,  and  even  agitation,  which  she  had  experienced  ir 


58  THE    earl's    daughter. 

the  exj)C'ctation  of  the   meeting  were  cahiied.     But  she   was 
silent,  and  so  was  the  earl. 

"  We  shall  see  them  from  this  ]«oiut,"  he  said,  at  length,  as 
he  led  his  daughter  to  a  bench  upon  the  summit  of  a  steep  kuuli. 
"  It  was  an  old  boyish  habit  of  mine,  to  stand  here  and  watch 
!or  arrivals." 

Blanche  looked  towards  the  winding  road  which  passed  over 
the  village  green.  "  There  is  something, — a  carriage  ;  yes,  a 
carriage,  1  am  sure.     Don't  you  see  it,  papa?" 

"  Eyes  of  sixteen  against  eyes  of  fifty,  Blanche,"  said  the  earl, 
smiling.  "  Are  you  certain  that  you  don't  hear  the  rumbling 
of  the  wheels  ?" 

"  Oh  !  j»ai)a,  you  won't  believe  ;  but  I  do  see  it,  though.  It 
is  coming  nearer ;  it  has  just  passed  the  lirst  turning,  and  it  is 
very  quick  too.    There  must  be  four  horses,  so  it  must  be  them." 

"  Well,  then,  we  will  return  ;  but  look  once  more  :  are  you 
sure  ?" 

"  Yes,  quite ;  it  is  by  the  blacksmith's  shop.  I  can  see  the 
horses  now  distinctly." 

Lord  Rutherford  quickened  his  pace  towards  the  house.  He 
looked  thoughtful  and  uneasy. 

They  stood  upon  the  steps  together.  The  earl  leant  moodily 
against  the  cistle  wall ;  he  saw  no  external  objects.  His  eye 
was  turned  inwards  to  his  own  heart,  and  the  images  of  the 
years  that  were  passed  away.  He  started,  however,  as  the  sound 
of  wheels  became  more  distinct;  and,  when  the  leaders 
appeared  on  the  crest  of  the  hill,  he  drew  Blanche  forward  to 
meet  the  carriage.  Blanche  thought  that  it  was  the  impulse 
of  hospitality  and  affection  ;  but  it  was  merely  restlessness  :  he 
lldt  himself  compelled  to  move. 

Lady  Charlton  was  the  first  to  perceive  them,  and  the  car- 
riage was  instantly  stopped. 

'*  Kind  ! — like  yourself,  always,"  was  lier  salutation,  as  she  ex- 
tended her  hand,  which  the  earl  took  with  something  of  trembling 
cordiality.     "And  my  dear  Blanche  too!  but  I  must  walk." 

The  carriage-door  was  opened,  and  Lady  Charlton  alighted. 

"  We  are  not  in  public,"  she  said,  as  she  kissed  Blanche's 
forehead,  and  again  gave  her  hand  to  the  earl. 

Blanche's  snnle  was  very  sweet,  and  her  few  words — few 
from  repressed  feeling, — were  all  that  her  aunt  could  desire. 

"  You  don't  want  introductions,"  continued  Lady  Charlton 
'  Maude,  Adelaide  ;  you  know  your  cousin,  of  course." 


THE      EARLS      DAUGHTER.  59 

Tliere  was  another  warm  greeting,  and  Blanche  was  recover 
ing  her  momentary  shyness  and  agitation.  She  remained  at 
llie  carriage-door,  bending  forwards  and  speaking  eagerly, 
whilst  her  eye  sparkled  with  pleasure,  and  a  bright  colour 
tlushed  her  usually  pale  cheek.  Lady  Charlton  watched  her 
for  a  few  moments,  and  Vj*^  seemingly  involuntary  exclamation 
escaped  her,-^"  Yes,  she  is  just  what  I  could  have  imagined ; 
I  nmst  have  known  her  in  r.ny  |»lace." 

The  earl  turned  away. 

"  Don't  distress  yourself,  my  dear,"  continued  Lady  Charlton, 
as  Blanche  was  about  to  address  some  person,  or  apjiarently 
thing,  which  bore  a  resenfolance  rather  to  a  bundle  of  shawls 
than  a  human  being.  "  Poor  Sir  Hugh  :  he  is  miserably 
tired — half  dead  with  oputes  ; — he  Inis  been  sufiering  ftstar- 
fully  the  last  week,  but  he  would  come  ;  he  will  be  himself 
by-and-by :  they  had  better  drive  on,"  and  the  carriage  pro- 
ceeded. 

Blanche  walked  leisurely  to  the  castle  with  her  father  and 
aunt.  She  was  confused  ;  there  had  scarcely  been  time  to 
recognise  any  one,  but  the  general  impression  was  agreeable. 
Lady  Charlton  was  undoubtedly  an  elegant,  distinguished  look- 
ing person  ;  her  voice  too  was  musical,  and  her  manner  very 
winning  from  its  ease  an]  kindness.  And  her  cousins — she 
thought  she  knew  them  apart ;  one  had  a  sallow  comj>lexion 
and  light  hair,  a  plain  but  very  clever  face,  rather  severe  and 
grave  in  its  expression — that  must  be  Maude,  the  invalid :  and 
the  other  was  a  brunette,  with  dark  hair,  braided  ;  dressed 
handsomely  and  carefully,  lively  in  manner,  and  altogether 
ple;ising  from  youth  and  g^'-ety,  and  the  quickness  of  a  i>air  of 
\  ery  bright  eyes,  rather  than  frojn  any  regular  beaut}'.  The  earl 
said  little ;  but  Lady  Chatit.jn  had  words  upon  every  subject  at 
command.  No  one  could  be  in  the  least  restrained  with  her. 
Even  in  those  few  minutes,  she  seemed  to  take  exactl}'  that 
position  which  Blanche  had  felt  must  be  filled  before  she  could 
be  quite  at  ease  with  her  lather.  Lady  Charlton  was  affection- 
ate and  interested,  but  she  was  not  timid.  Blanche  could 
scarcely  understand  the  boldness  with  which  she  raUied  the 
earl  upon  his  long  absence,  his  present  love  of  seclusion ;  and 
j)ro))hesied  that  he  was  yet  co  prove  himself  as  distinguished  a 
person  in  England  as  he  had  been  abroad.  Lord  liutherford 
was  at  first  grave,  but  not  annoyed  ;  and,  after  a  few  minutes, 
he  appeared  to  have  caught  himself  sonrething  of  Lady  Charl- 
ton's vivacity,  and  answered   her  remarks  in  a  tone  almost  as 


60  THE    earl's    daughter. 

full  of  cheoifulness  as  her  own.  It  was  a  new  pluise  of  cliarao 
ter  which  Blanche  had  not  before  perceived. 

"  And  Sir  Hugh  has  been  very  ill,  then,"  said  Lord  Rutlier- 
ford,  as  lie  saw  the  carriage  stop  at  the  castle,  and  two  servants 
assist  in  helping  a  seemingly  decrepit  old  man  to  plight. 

"Yes,"  and  Lady  Charlton  sighed  ;  "it  is  very  sad  ;  one  can 
never  be  prepared  for  these  attacks.  He  was  at  a  great  dinner 
only  a  fortnight  ago,  and  quite  the  life  of  the  party ;  made  a 
speech,  and  proposed  toasts,  and  kept  up  the  whjle  thing  till 
after  twelve  o'clock  ;  was  quite  himself,  in  fact :  and  now,  you 
see  what  he  is." 

"  I  suppose  the  dinner  was  the  root  of  the  evil,'*  observed  the 
earl. 

"  Well !  yes ;  I  suppose  it  might  have  been  so :  but  ;he 
complaint  is  constitutional,  hereditary.  Blancho,  my  dear,  you 
may  think  yourself  happy  in  being  descended  from  another 
family.     The  Evelyns  never  were  a  gouty  race." 

"  1  should  hope  not,"  said  the  earl,  quietly. 

Lady  Charlton  laughed.  "Now,  my  dear  Putherford,  that 
is  one  of  your  old  exclusive  fancies.  I  really  flackered  myself 
that  fifteen  years'  experience  of  continental  liberalism  would 
have  done  something  towards  destroying  them  ;  but  you  are 
just  the  same,  I  see  :  just  the  same  spirit  of  the  Spanish  hidalgo 
in  you — 'This  comes  of  walking  on  the  earth.'  " 

"  And  the  Spanish  hidalgo  was  right,"  said  Bla'^che,  archly. 

Lady  Charlton  smiled,  and  answered,  "  Quite  rlj^ht,  my  dear ; 
but  1  don't  know  how  it  is — the  older  one  grows^  the  less  in- 
clined one  is  to  hang,  like  Mahomet's  coffin,  bH^Lvveen  heaven 
and  earth :  there  is  something  very  solitary  and  uncongenial  in 
the  position;  and  therefore,  since  one  cannot  ^et  have  the 
higher,  I  am  willing  to  rest  satisfied  with  the  lower,  and  to  be 
very  hap])y  upon  earth,  in  spite  of  the  S|ianish  h.'aalgo." 

"  And  the  gout,"  said  Lord  Rutherford.  "  Sii  Hugh,  I  sus- 
pect, would  tell  a  different  tale." 

"Oh  !  poor  Sir  Hugh  !  you  will  see  him  very  unlike  himself, 
Dlanche  ;  or  rather  you  will  not  see  him  at  all.  He  and  Pear- 
sou  ofo  tlieir  own  way  when  he  is  in  this  state.  A  first-rate  ser- 
vant Pearson  is  ;  and  such  a  nurse !" 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  castle.  As  they  entered 
it,  l^>lanche  again  repeated  her  welcome  to  her  aunt,  and  Lady 
Charlton's  manner  in  an  instant  changed.  She  v  as  no  longer 
the  cheerful,  amusing  woman  of  the  world;  but  ">.\e  thoughtful, 
frarm-hearted,  symjiathizing  friend.      She  took  BLinche's  hand 


THE      EARLS     DAUGHTER.  61 

ill  botli  liors,  and  thanked  her  -with  a  warmth  of  affection  which 
Llanclie  fidly  appreciated.  Dr.  Wentworth's  description  recurred 
to  lier  mind.     Fascinating ! — Yes,  that  was  the  right  word. 

Blanche  was  alone  till  nearly  dinner-time.  Her  cousins  wera 
engaged  in  dressing  for  dinner,  or«jierhaps  in  resting  after  their 
journey.  She  did  not  see  anything  of  them  after  showing  them 
to  their  rooms.  Her  aunt  she  supposed  was  with  Sir  Hugh  ;  her 
father,  she  knew,  had  business  to  transact.  The  solitude  was 
very  precious  to  her ;  it  gave  her  leisure  for  thought,  for 
examining  her  own  impressions.  Blanche  trusted  very  much  to 
first  impressions,  for  as  yet  she  had  never  known  deception.  All 
seemed  bright  and  hopeful — not  from  any  particular  cause  that 
she  could  fix  upon — the  sensation  of  relief  and  satisfaction  was 
indefinable  ;  the  castle  was  the  castle  still — her  own  position  was 
the  same — her  one  great  grief  was  as  real  as  it  had  ever  been  ; 
out  her  heart  was  lighter. 

The  earl  was  waiting  for  her  as  she  left  her  room.  He  had 
come  on  purpose  to  take  her  himself  to  the  drawing-room,  that 
she  might  not  be  shy  ;  so  he  said :  but  his  survey  of  Blanche's 
dress  and  general  appearance  betrayed  his  true  motive.  A  smile 
of  intense  pleasure  passed  over  his  face  as  he  looked  at  her  : 
the  simple  white  dress  was  the  symbol  of  the  pure,  spotless 
Diind. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

"Eleanor,"  said  Mr.  "Wentworth  to  his  sister,  as  lie  entered 
the  school-room  the  day  after  the  arrival  of  Lady  Charlton  at  the 
castle,  "  you  must  leave  those  never-ending  lessons,  and  come 
out ;  I  want  you." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Charles,  you  must  wait :  if  you  have 
returned  to  staj  here  for  several  months,  you  must  learn  to 
amuse  yourself." 

"  More  easily  said  than  done,"  was  the  rp])ly  ;  and  the  j^oung 
man  threw  himself  into  the  first  arm-chair  which  presented  itself, 
and  continued:  "Four  months!  it  is  a  terribly  long  time. 
What  on  earth  shall  I  do  with  myself  f 

"  liead,"  replied  Eleanor,  still  occujiying  herself  with  an  exer- 
oife  -^-hich  she  was  correcting. 

"  ilead  !    my  dear  Eleanor,"  replied  her  brother,  with  a  sigh 


62  THE      EARLS      DAUGHTER. 

o(  languid  ^voai'iiicss.  "  But  I  Lave  read  ;  I  do  read.  It  la 
nothing  else  but  reading  from  morning  till  night.'' 

"  But  it  will  oidy  last  a  httle  longer,"  said  Eleanor,  soothingly  ; 
"  and  then " 

"  And  then  comes  ordination,"  added  Charles. 

There  was  an  accent  of  bitterness  in  his  voice.  Eleanor 
looked  up,  and  put  her  finger  to  her  lips,  as  she  glanced  at  her 
little  sister. 

"  Susan,  child,  run  into  the  garden,  and  find  Brown," 
exclaimed  Charles  imjiatiently.  "  Tell  him  lie  mitst  have  my 
horse  ready  for  me  by  three  o'clock." 

8u:<an  ran  away,  only  too  glad  of  the  excuse  to  change  her 
emjiloyment. 

"  You  forget  Susan's  age,"  said  Eleanor,  in  a  reproachful  tone, 
when  she  found  herself  alone  with  her  brother. 

"  Yes,  I  did  at  the  moment ;  but  there  would  have  been  \)o 
harm  done." 

"  Only  that  she  is  very  likely  to  repeat  to  papa  all  that  you 
say  to  me,  and  you  would  not  like  that." 

"  I  don't  know  ;  he  must  hear  it  some  day  or  other." 

"  Oh !  no,  Charles :  you  intend  to  change  your  views,  and 
look  at  the  matter  differently." 

"  My  dear  Eleanor,"  was  the  answer,  spoken  coolly  and 
rather  satirically,  "  it  is  exceedingly  easy  for  you  to  talk ;  but, 
begging  your  pardon,  you  know  nothing  whatever  of  the  subject. 
Ordainad  I  must  be — 1  intend  to  be ;  but  not  to  be  my  fiither's 
curate  ;  not  to  vegetate  upon  a  hundred  a  year  in  a  country 
village,  with  no  one  but  my  own  family  to  speak  to.  I  was 
not  born  for  such  a  life,  and  I  can  never  endure  it." 

"  Would  you  not  be  just  as  badly  off  in  any  other  place  T' 
inquired  Eleanor.  "  You  will  have  the  castle,  and  the  society 
there,  for  a  change." 

"  Lord  Rutherford  and  Lady  Blanche  ?"  said  Charles,  doubt- 

"  Y'es  ;  and  I  think  you  will  scarcely  require  more.  Y^ou  will 
go  far  before  you  meet  any  one  the  equal  of  Blanche,  at  least." 

"  Equal !  no  ;  to  watch  her  is  like  looking  up  at  a  star  ;  but 
confess,  Eleanor,  notwithstanding  all  your  romance,  it  is  awfully 
out  of  one's  reach." 

"  Y"et  Blanche  is  the  most  warm-hearted,  enthusiastic, 
poetical  person  imag-inable,"  exclaimed  Eleanor. 

"  Very  likely  ;  you  young  ladies  are  extremely  warm-hearted 
to   each   other,  and  no  doubt  very  poetical  in  your  private 


TiiK    earl's    dacgiiter.  (53 

journals  ;  but  that  docs  not  help  us  poor  men.  Lady  Blanclio 
makes  a  most  lovely  picture  ;  but  pictures  are  not  society." 

"Then  you  will  have  others  besides  Blanche,"  continued 
Eleanor.     "  Lady  Charlton,  and" — 

"  The  Charltons  ?  Are  they  here  ?  When  did  they  come  i 
You  never  ti*ld  me  anything  about  them." 

Mr.  Wentworth  grew  evidently  excited  at  the  information. 

Eleanor  could  not  forbear  laughing.  "  Why,  my  dear 
Charles,  I  was  not  quite  prepared  for  such  a  burst.  They  are 
here — Lady  Chai'lton  and  Sir  Hugh." 

"And  Adelaide  ?"  interrupted  Charles. 

"  Christian  names !"  exclaimed  Eleanor.  "  Really,  Charles, 
that  is  rather  surprising.  Do  papa  and  mamma  know  of  this 
great  intimacy  ?" 

"  My  dear  Eleanor,  you  are  a  mere  baby.  Christian  names 
are  nothing  at  all ;  it  entirely  depends  upon  the  people.  I 
should  never  think  of  calling  Lady  Blanche  Evelyn,  Blanche." 

"  No,  because  she  is  Lady  Blanche  ?" 

"  But  if  she  were  Miss,  I  could  not.  Don't  you  understand  ? 
Some  persons  are  to  be  regarded  at  a  distance.  They  never 
give  one  the  opportunity  of  approaching  nearer ;  they  are  never 
off  their  guard." 

"Which,  I  presume,  then,  that  the  Miss  Charltons  are," 
observed  Eleanor,  in  a  tone  of  amusement. 

"  They  are  very  quick — very  agreeable.  I  should  not  exactly 
choose  to  see  you  like  them  ;  but  they  will  be  great  acquisitions. 
When  I  say  them,  however,  I  really  only  mean  Adelaide.  The 
other  is  clever  enough — a  very  phoenix  in  learning  and  accom- 
plishments ;  but  she  is  anything  but  agreeable,  if  you  happen  to 
take  her  in  the  wrong  mood." 

"  She  is  an  invahd,  I  believe,"  said  Eleanor. 

"  Yes,  she  thinks  herself  so,  and  slie  looks  liideously  ugly ; 
people  say,  from  ill  health.  It  was  the  fashion  abroad,  to  ad- 
mire her  forehead  and  eyes,  and  call  them  intellectual ;  but  I 
never  could  get  over  the  complexion." 

"  I  don't  see' that  she  is  hkely  to  be  much  of  an  acquisition," 
continued  Eleanor. 

"  Yes  ;  in  her  way,  she  will  be  ;  she  plays  marvellously,  and 
sings !  I  never  heard  any  amateur  voice  in  the  least  equa.  to 
hers.     Upon  the  whole,  I  am  immensely  glad  they  are  here." 

"  I  must  ask  you  to  go,  now,"  said  Eleanor,  gravely.  "  Susan 
must  come  to  her  lessons  ;  don't  you  hear  her  in  tlie  passage  ?" 

"  Kun  aw;iv,  child,  we  are  not  ready  for  you  yet,"  exclaimed 


64  THE     earl's    daughter, 

Cliarles,  rising  from  liis  cliair  with  some  effort ;  and  going  to  the 
door,  in  spite  of  his  sister's  evident  aimoyance,  he  sent  Susan  on 
anotlier  message,  and  then  returning  said,  "  These  four  mouths  ! 
— they  will  be  a  great  trial." 

"  I  should  not  tind  them  so  if  I  were  in  your  place,"  observed 
Eleanor,  whilst  the  colour  mounted  to  her  cheeks.  "I  should 
be  glad  to  be  with  yon  anywhere,  especially  at  home." 

Charles  seemed  a  little  surprised  at  her  manner.  "  I  don't 
understand,"  he  replied.  "  Of  course,  I  am  glad  to  be  with  you  ; 
but  just  think  for  a  minute;"  and  his  voice  became  quite  ener- 
getic ;  "  I  have  passed  through  the  university,  and  made  rather 
a  noise  there ;  since  then  I  have  been  travelling  for  two  years, 
seeing  most  enchanting  places,  enjoying  lirst-rate  society — and 
now  I  am  told  that  I  am  to  sit  down  for  life — it  is  the  life  which 
frightens  me ! — in  an  old  country  parsonage,  with  not  a  single 
person  to  speak  to  beyond  my  own  family,  and  the  chance 
visitors  at  Rutherford  Castle.  Doubtless,  there  are  persons  for 
whom  such  prospects  might  do  very  well ;  good,  quiet,  hura- 
di-uni  men,  who,  exactly  the  reverse  of  Charles  the  Second,  may 
be  warranted  never  to  do  a  foolish  thing,  and  never  say  a  wise 
one ; — but  I  am  not  one  of  them.  If  my  father  wishes  me  to 
do  anything  he  must  give  me  a  s]ihere ;  he  ought  to  do  so ;  for 
I  have  never  caused  him  any  trouble.  I  have  never  been  wild 
or  extravagant ;  and  yet  he  looks  as  grave  as  if  I  were  a  complete 
scapegrace." 

"The  notion  of  your  ordination  makes  him  do  that,"  said 
Eleanor. 

"  And  whose  fault  is  the  ordination?"  exclaimed  Mr.  Went- 
worth.  "  He  has  dinned  into  my  ears,  ever  since  I  was  a  baby 
in  arms,  that  I  was  to  be  a  clergyman,  and  what  possible  right 
has  he  to  tind  fault  with  me  now  because  I  intend  to  be  one  ?" 

"  Papa  looks  at  the  profession  more  seriously  than  you  do," 
observed  Eleanor. 

"  Serious ;  it  is  serious  enough,  no  one  doubts  that ;  but  all 
the  more  reason  why  I  should  have  a  little  life  and  enjoyment 
beforehand." 

''  Papa  thinks  that  is  not  the  right  sort  of  preparation,"  said 
Eleanor,  in  a  tone  of  mild  suggestion,  rather  than  of  reproof. 

"  I  don't  mean  it  as  preparation — and  yet  call  it  so,  if  you 
A-ill.  When  I  am  ordained,  things  will  be  different.  I  shall  bo 
a  clergyman  ;  and  I  shall  conduct  myself  like  one.  My  father 
cannot  suppose  I  mean  to  disgrace  myself  by  being  a  vulgar, 
t)X-hunting,  drinking,  negligent,  country  parson." 


THE      EARLS     DAUGHTER,  Gc 

"  The  race  is  happily  becominrj  extinct,"  said  Eieanor ,  "  bul 
my  fatlier  will  not  be  satisfied  'svith  your  merely  escaping  dis- 
grace." 

"  He  wishes  to  see  me  honoured  ;  and  he  shall  do  so.  Onca 
let  me  have  the  opjiortunity  ;  [ilace  me  in  London  ;  give  me,  as 
r  said  beforef  a  sphere;  and,  before  he  dies,  he  shall  see  me  a 
bishop." 

Elganor  shook  her  head,  and  said  more  courageously,  "That 
is  not  the  tone  to  please  papa,  Charles.  He  does  not  under- 
stand it.     He  does  not  know  what  it  is  to  wish  to  be  a  bishop." 

"  Neither  do  I  wish  it,  Eleanor ;  if  I  could  be  anything  else. 
But  I  am  all  but  shut  out  from  every  other  profession.  I  am 
not  educated,  and  not  inclined  for  the  army ;  I  am  not  at  all 
fitted  for  a  physician ;  and  utterly  without  interest  at  the  bar — 
if  I  could  bring  myself  to  submit  to  the  drudgery  of  studying  for 
it.  I  know  I  must  take  orders  ;  and  all  I  ask  is,  that  my  father 
should  try  to  place  me  where  my  talents — for  you  know,  Eleanor, 
it  is  imi>ossible  to  deny  that  I  have  some  talents,"  and  Mr. 
Wentworth  laitghed  faintly,  and  settling  his  cravat,  glanced  at 
himself  in  the  looking-glass — "should  have  scope." 

Eleanor's  reply  showed  an  e\-ident  wish  to  put  an  end  to  a  dis- 
agreeable subject.  She  was  quite  sure,  she  said,  that  her  father 
would  do  everything  in  his  power  to  promote  her  brother's 
views,  by-and-bye  ;  but  that  she  could  not  herself  see  what  steps 
were  to  be  taken  at  once. 

"  One,  very  simple,"  exclaimed  Charles,  eagerly.  "  Let  him 
consent  that  I  should  have  a  curacy  in  London  ;  or,  at  least,  that 
I  should  try  for  one  ;  instead  of  insisting  upon  my  drudging  on 
a  weary  existence  here,  with  nothing  to  rouse  energy." 

"  You  had  better  resign  youi"self,  my  dear  Charles,"  and 
Eleanor  tried  to  laugh.  "  When  [lapa  once  has  made  a  deci- 
sion, he  is  very  resolute." 

"And  he  will  find  that  his  son  can  be  resolute  too,"  exclaimed 
Mr.  Wentworth.  "  I  have  made  up  my  mind  what  I  will  do ;  I 
will  be  off — ofi"  to  Australia;  no  power  on  earth  shall  stop  me. 
if  I  am  thwarted." 

"  You,  in  Australia  !  a  settler !"  and  Eleanor  laughed  :  "  no, 
papa  feels  he  is  perfectly  safe  there.  But,  my  dear  Charles,  there 
is  a  much  surer  way  of  bringing  him  round  to  look  at  things  in 
your  own  way.  Stay  here  quietly,  and  do  as  he  wishes ;  study, 
and  visit  the  poor  people,  and  then  he  will  be  satisfied;  and  will 
see  liimself,  by  degrees,  that  you  are  not  likely  to  gain  any  harm 
by  ultimately  settling  in  London.     You  must  own,"  she  fulded; 


CO  THE      EARLS      D  A  U  G  II  T  E  K  . 

witli  some  hesitation,  "that  papa's  anxiety  is  natural  enough, 
considering  the  way  you  talk." 

"  But  1  don't  talk  so  to  him,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Wentworth. 
"  Neither  he  nor  my  mother  knows  half  I  really  feel." 

"Poor  mamma!"  said  Eleanor,  speaking  seriously,  yet  not 
without  some  satisfiiction  at  her  brother's  implied  confidence  in 
herself;  "with  her  high  views,  her  very  exalted  notions  of  a 
clergyman's  office,  I  certainly  should  not  like  her  to  hear  you 
rattle  on  in  this  random  way.  1  don't  approve  of  it,  you  know, 
myself;  only  I  am  sure  you  don't  mean  it." 

"I  do  mean  it,  though,"  exclaimed  Charles,  petulantly; 
"  and  what  is  more,  I  am  convinced  that  there  are  not  half  a 
dozen  men  in  England  who  would  not  say  precisely  the  same. 
Of  course,  I  shall  do  my  duty ;  but  it  must  be  in  the  right 
place — not  here." 

"  Not  even  with  Lady  Charlton  and  her  family,  at  the 
castle  ?"  said  Eleanor,  pointedly. 

"  Oh  !  nonsense,  they  would  make  a  difference  ;  but  it  would 
only  be  for  a  time ;  they  can't  stay." 

"Blanche  expects  them  for  a  very  long  visit,"  replied  Eleanor. 

"Lord  Rutherford  and  Adelaide  Charlton  !"  said  Charles, 
musingly.  "  A  very  incongruous  mixture.  Adelaide's  high 
spirits  will  never  stand  the  castle  proprieties." 

"  Charles,  dear  ;  promise  me  one  thing,  please,"  said  Eleanor, 
laying  her  hand  upon  his  arm.  "  Don't  speak  of  Miss  Charlton 
in  that  way  before  mamma;  it  is  just  the  sort  of  thing  to  annoy 
her." 

Mr.  Wentworth  laughed.  "  My  dear  Eleanor,  you  really  are 
more  childish  than  I  imagined;  but  anything  you  like;  only, 
when  you  knov/  Adelaide,  you  will  see  that  it  is  impossible  to 
call  her  anything  else.  And,  remember,  if  I  am  to  stay  here 
and  be  well  behaved,  I  must  have  full  leave  to  go  to  the  castle 
as  often  as  I  choose." 

"Leave  from  me  as  much  as  you  wish,"  replied  Eleanor; 
"if  you  will  only  be  cautious.  I  could  not  bear  you  to  vex 
mamma,  and  she  is  rather  suspicious  of  vou  already." 

Mr.  Wentworth  put  on  an  air  of  mock  gravity ;  and  folding 
Ills  hands,  and  casting  his  eyes  to  the  ground,  promised  to  be 
as  demure  as  Susan,  if  only  his  sister  would  help  to  pro\nde 
him  with  amusement.  "  And  suggest  to  my  father  that  I  shall 
not  be  fitted  for  his  curate,"  were  his  last  words,  as  he  went  out 
of  the  room,  leaving  Eleanor  in  a  state  of  mind  by  no  means  ta 
be  envied. 


THE     earl's    daughter.  67 

He  was  scarcely  gone,  Avlien  Mrs.  Wentwortli  came  tliroiigh 
the  garden  to  the  school- room  window.  She  held  a  note  in 
her  hand,  which  she  put  into  Eleanor's  silentl\%  and  then  stood 
by  apparently  engaged  in  twisting  the  straggling  tendrils  of  the 
clematis  which  darkened  the  apartment.  Eleanor  returned  the 
note  with  thanks  ;  her  colour  was  heightened,  and  her  eyes 
sparkled  with  pleasure.  "  Shall  I  write  an  answer,  mamma ; 
or  wili  you  ?" 

Mrs.  Wentworth  paused  for  a  moment  before  she  said,  in  a 
tone  of  annoyance,  "  I  was  afraid  it  would  be  so.  I  was  sure 
you  would  be  vexed,  my  love." 

"  Vexed  !  dear  mamma." 

"  Yes.  It  is  nothing  very  grievous ;  but  your  father  and  I 
think  it  best  to  decline.  lie  wished  me  not  to  show  you  the 
invitation  ;  but  I  could  not  agree,  I  have  too  much  confidence 
in  your  good  sense,  and  your  love  for  me." 

"  Oh,  mamma !  the  lirst  day  !  and  an  express  invitation 
to  us  all ;  and  Blanche  so  extremely  urgent !" 

"  The  very  reason,  my  love,  why  it  may  be  more  desirable 
to  decline."     Eleanor  bit  her  lip,  and  made  no  rei)ly. 

"  You  will  understand  some  of  our  objections,"  continued 
Mrs.  Wentworth.  "  As  an  acquaintance  begins,  so  it  may  be 
supposed  to  continue.  We  do  not  wish  to  be  dining  at  the 
castle  perpetually,  now." 

"Because  of  Lady  Charlton  and  her  party,  I  suppose." 
replied  Eleanor,  trying  to  be  good-humoured.  "  But,  dear 
mamma,  she  is  a  very  charming  person." 

"  I  don't  know  what  she  is,"  was  Mrs.  Wentworth's  reply, 
spoken  more  quickly  than  was  her  wont:  "  only  you  will  be 
contented  at  home,  my  child." 

"Contented  with  you,  mamma?  oh!  yes,  always;  but" — 

"  But  you  must  try  and  think  as  I  think ;  try,  and  not 
dream  of  the  castle  by  night  and  by  day."  Eleanor  smiled, 
though  without  cheerfulness.  "  Consider  what  it  would  be  to 
me,"  continued.  Mrs.  Wentworth,  "to  see  you  restless  and 
excited ;  or  to  find  you  longing  for  different  society,  and  know 
that  you  were  neglecting  your  own  simple  duties." 

"  I  should  never  neglect  my  duties  by  being  with  Blanche," 
exclaimed  Eleanor  eagerly  ;  "  she  would  always  keep  me  right." 

"  My  love,  indeed  you  are  mistaken.  Lady  Blanche  is  a  very 
sweet  girl,  most  amiable  and  winning;  but,  when  you  are 
toiTf'ther,  her  spirit  cannot  be  the  ruling  one." 

Eleanor's  head  was  raised  proudi}',  as  she  replied,  "  It  should 


68  THE    earl's    daughter. 

be,  if  I  were  Blanche.     Kank,  wealth,  beauty,  talent!     Mamma, 
Blanche  ought  to  rule  a  kingdom." 

"  Let  her  learn  to  rule  the  kingdom  of  her  own  heart," 
re})lied  Mrs.  Wentworth ;  "  that  will  be  the  most  needful 
lesson.     Poor  child  !  hers  is  a  position  of  great  temptation." 

"Mamma,"  said  Eleanor  thoughtfully,  "you  might  help  her." 

Mrs.  Wentworth  paused.  "I  might  possibly,  if  circum- 
stances were  different ;  if  the  opportunity  should  occur ;  but 
your  affection,  I  think,  a  little  deceives  you,  Eleanor.  Lady 
Blanche  is  not  likely  to  give  me  the  opportunity ;  she  is  too  gentle 
and  yielding  to  profit  by  the  sort  of  help  I  should  give.  She 
would  require  something  less  severe.  Mrs.  Howard  is  more 
likely  to  be  of  use  to  her  than  I  am." 

"  Mrs.  Howard  is  so  far  off,"  replied  Eleanor. 

"Yes;  but  they  can  write.  Though,  of  course,  my  love," 
continued  Mrs.  Wentworth,  assuming  a  tone  of  greater  uncon- 
straint,  "  I  do  not  mean  that  I  would  not  do  everything  for  her 
that  I  possibly  could  ;  only  there  are  some  dispositions  so  easily 
moulded  that  they  take  impressions  from  everything ;  and,  if  it 
should  be  so  with  Lady  Blanche,  you  will  find  that  the  daily 
life  at  the  castle  with  her  relations  will  really  form  her  character. 
And,  besides,"  and  Mrs.  Wentworth's  voice  sank,  as  it  some- 
times did,  into  a  tone  so  low  that  it  scarcely  seemed  intended 
for  conversation,  "  there  are  difierent  atmospheres,  different 
circles — the  castle  and  the  rectory — no,  never  again." 

Eleanor  made  no  comment  upon  this  speech  ;  yet  the  thought 
crossed  her  mind,  with  wonder,  why,  if  the  circles  were  so 
different,  and  the  atmospheres  so  uncongenial,  she  should  have 
been  allowed  to  grow  up  from  childhood  in  unrestrained  inti- 
macy with  Blanche. 

"  And  you  will  be  satisfied  then,  my  dear,  not  to  dine  at  the 
castle  to-day,"  said  Mrs.  Wentworth  in  her  natural  manner ; 
"  we  have  an  engagement  which  will  do  very  well  as  an  excuse 
for  us  all.  Your  father  talked  this  morning,  of  asking  Mr. 
Moulton,  of  Enfield,  to  stay ;  as  he  is  going  to  ride  with  him 
to  see  the  workhouse ;  and  though  we  might  leave  them  at 
home,  it  will  be  better  not." 

Eleanor  sighed  at  the  prospect  of  exchanging  a  cheerful 
evening  at  the  castle  for  the  society  of  an  elderly  gentleman, 
whose  only  interest  in  life  seemed  to  be  the  faults  of  the  poor- 
laws.  The  sigh  was  not  utterly  selfish  ;  it  was  as  much  for  hel 
brother  as  lierself ;  and  she  ventured  to  add  a  petition  for  him 
but  Mrs.  Wentworth  negatived  the  idea  instantly. 


THE    earl's    daughter.  09 

"  Charles  !  oh  dear !  no.  He  was  much  too  great  a  strangei 
to  go  by  himself;  he  would  be  quite  a  burden  to  Lord  Ruther- 
ford; and,  moreover" — but  this  time  Mrs.  VVentworth's 
thoughts  were  not  betrayed  by  an  undertone;  and  Eleanor 
could  only  conjecture  that  the  "  moreover"  might  have  some 
reference  to>Miss  Charlton.  She  was  not  forbidden,  however,  to 
go  to  the  castle  in  the  morning — that  was  some  satisfaction ; 
and  slie  might  see  Blanche  ;  she  might  just  have  a  glimpse  of 
Adelaide  Charlton ;  and,  without  hesitation,  she  expressed  her 
intention  to  her  mother. 

They  had  not  met  the  preceding  day,  she  said ;  and  Blanche 
■would  think  it  unkind  if  she  were  not  to  go  near  her. 

"  Lady  Blanche  will  call  upon  you,  my  dear,  if  she  is  anx- 
ious about  it,"  said  Mrs.  Wentworth,  quietly  and  coldly. 

Eleanor  changed  colour.  "  Anxious  about  it,  dear  mamma ; 
what  can  you  mean  ?" 

"Nothing,  my  dear;  only  I  think  you  might  as  well  leave 
the  castle  for  to-day." 

A  torrent  of  eager  words  seemed  about  to  rush  forth,  for 
Eleanor's  eye.  flashed  with  anger  and  vexation.  Mrs.  Went- 
worth stopped  her  before  the  first  word  wiis  spoken.  "My 
love,  you  have  trusted  me  always ;  do  you  doubt  now  that  I 
would  make  you  happy  in  your  own  way  if  it  were  right  V 

The  haughty  spirit  was  subdued  in  an  instant,  and  Eleanor's 
arm  was  thrown  round  her  mother's  neck. 

"  Mamma,  you  are  always  right ;  yet  you  cannot  love  Blanche 
as  I  do." 

"I  loved  her  mother,"  was  Mrs.  Wentworth's  calm  reply; 
ana  as  she  walked  slowly  away,  Eleanor  threw  herself  upon  a 
shair,  and  burst  into  tears. 


CUAPTER  XIL 

"  Here,  Pearson  I  stop  a  minute,  can't  you  ?  What  in  the 
world  are  you  going  away  for,  Idiot  ?"  growled  Sir  Hugh  Charl- 
tjn,  helplessly  stretching  out  his  hand  to  reach  a  small  hand- 
bell, which  liad  unfortunately  been  placed  just  beyond  his 
roach. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir;  very  sorry,  quite  forgot,"  muttered 
tlie  stout,  obsequious,  black-haired,  black-whiskered,  and  most 
ehrewd-luoking  individual,  whose  character  was  constantly  sum- 


YO  THE      EARLS      DAUGHTER. 

mod-up  by  Lady  Charlton,  in  the  emphatic  description  of  "the 
best  creature  in  the  world." 

"The  medicine,  the  drops!  where  are  they?  why  don't  you 
fetch  them  ?"  continued  Sir  Hugh,  as  Pearson  remained  by  his 
side,  pretending  to  adjust  the  pillows  at  his  head,  and  eyeing 
with  great  apparent  solicitude  the  arrangement*  of  the  gouty 
stool  which  supported  his  master's  feet.  Pearson  did  not  say, 
that  he  had  been  on  the  point  of  departure  when  he  was 
brought  back ;  he  placed  the  hand-bell  more  conveniently  than 
before,  gave  an  additional  touch  to  the  pillows,  brought  the 
newspaper  within  reach,  and  then,  as  he  was  leaving  the  room, 
remarked,  that  the  earl  had  invited  some  friends  to  dinner,  so 
he  had  been  told  by  Mr.  Hilyard,  the  butler. 

"People  to  dinner,  did  you  say?  Here,  Pearson,  where  jire 
vou  going  ?  why,  in  the  name  of  wonder,  don't  you  speak  out  ?" 

'*L)r.  Wentworth's  femily  from  the  rectory  are  coming,  so 
Mr.  Ililyard  informed  me.  Sir  Hugh ;  but,  perhaps,  you  would 
wish  me  to  inquire.  When  you  have  taken  the  medicine,  if  I 
might  be  allowed,  I  would  ask."  Pearson  returned  almost  in 
an  instant.  The  drops  were  properly  measured  and  adminis- 
tered, and  Sir  Hugh's  next  order  was,  not  to  fidget  about  the 
room  like  a  mouse,  but  to  go  and  hear  who  was  coming ;  an 
order  fully  expected  by  the  ingenious  Pearson,  who  immediately 
departed  to  gossip,  for  at  least  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  in  the 
housekeeper's  room. 

He  was  gone,  but  Sir  Hugh  murmured  still,  "  Wentworths  I 
who  were  the  Wentworths  ?  People  he  had  never  hefird  of ! 
Wentworth !"  He  stopped  and  rubbed  his  chin,  and  thought, 
and  muttered  again,  "  Wentworth  I  yes,  he  did  know  the  name, 
he  remembered  it.  That  intolerable  fool,  Pearson,  where  was 
he  gone  ?  he  knew  every  one.  Heaps  of  Wentworth's  there 
were  everywhere — England — France — Italy."  He  seized  the 
hand  beh,  but,  without  ringing  it,  called  for  Pearson  at  the 
highest  pitch  of  his  voice. 

The  call  was  answered  by  Lady  Charlton.  "  My  dear  Sir 
Hugh,  such  a  noise  !  it  quite  frightens  one." 

''  Well !  madam,  and  I  intended  it  should.  Here  am  I— 
Pearson  gone — ^you  away — left  by  my  daughters — it  is  too 
bad." 

"  Oh !  but,  my  dear  Sir  Hugh,  you  must  not  be  exacting. 
Poor  children!  they  are  only  having  a  little  music  with 
Blanche." 

"No;  not  with  me,"  said  a  very  sweet  voice ;  and  Blanche. 


THE      earl's      daughter.  71 

who  had  just  entered  the  room,  came  up  to  Sir  Ilugli's  chair. 
''  You  know,  aunt  Charlton,  you  promised  I  should  be  of 
use.  Can  I  do  anything  for  Sir  Hugh  ?  Might  I  not  sit  a 
httle  while  with  him  ?" 

"  Oh !  mj  dear  Blanche,  this  is  too  good  of  you,"  and  Sir 
Hugh  grew  dhlm  directly.  "  Really  you  must  excuse  me — a 
gouty  man  must  make  a  great  many  apologies ;  but  that  fool 
— my^ian,  I  mean, — a  very  good  servant — a  capital  servant, 
Pearson — but  forgetful.  Lady  Charlton,  pray  place  a  chair ;  it 
distresses  me  quite."  Blanche  brought  a  chair  for  herself,  and 
placed  it  by  Sir  Hugh ;  her  work-biisket  was  in  her  hand,  and 
again  she  hoped  that  she  was  not  intruding. 

Lady  Charlton  smiled,  and  said,  "Sir  Hugh  would  be  only 
too  happy ;  and,  for  herself,  she  had  letters  to  write,  very 
important  ones ;  but  Blanche  must  not  fatigue  herself.  You 
can  read,  if  you  like  it,  my  love,  for  a  little  while.  Sir  Hugli 
is  a  great  reader,  and  a  writer  too  sometimes,  only  I  shall  be  in 
disgrace  if  I  mention  it."     She  looked  meaningly  at  Sir  Hugh. 

"My  dear  Lady  Charlton — Frances — you  are  really  too  bad. 
Blanche  will  be  shocked  ;  it  is  nothing ;  nothing  at  all,  I  assure 
you.  Just  a  pamphlet,  nothing  at  all  to  speak  of.  There  is 
one — Frances,  my  dear — on  the  side  table  ;  I  think  you  will 
find  one.  But,  never  mind ;  "  seeing  that  Lady  Charlton  cast 
an  unsearchiVig  and  unseeing  eye  round  the  room.  "Never 
mind,  Pearson  will  find  it.     I  can  ring." 

"  Pearson  is  going  to  dinner,"  replied  Lady  Charlton,  rather 
quickly,  "  but  Blanche,  I  dare  say,  will  read  to  you.  Let  me 
see,  that  book  on  geology  I  think  it  was  you  began.  My  dear 
Blanche,  I  really  am  ashamed  of  myself  for  allowing  you  to 
have  such  a  task.  I  da-e  say,  if  the  truth  were  told,  you  know 
no  more  of  the  '  ologies '  than  I  do ;  but  you  will  learn  some- 
thinf — names,  at  least.  I  quite  marvel  at  myself  for  not  being 
wiser,  considering  Sir  Hugh's  tastes.  We  had  not  very  much 
science  in  Italy  ;  and  a  great  drawback  it  was  for  him.  Good- 
b'ye,  my  love.  Maude  and  Ady  will  be  in  despair  when  they 
hear  you  are  not  coming  back." 

"As  much  in  despair  as  I  shall  be  in  delight,"  said  Sir  Hugh, 
twisting  his  sallow  and  worn  features  into  what  he  believed  to 
be  an  irresistible  smile. 

"  But  I  shall  have  mercy  upon  you,  Blanche,"  said   Lady 
Charlton,  returning  to  look  into  the  room  again.     "  Remember 
we  an;  to  have  a  riding  party  this  afternoon  ;  and  your  friends, 
till'  W't'iitwdrths,  T  hear,  are  to  dine  with  us." 
■i 


72  THE      earl's      daughter. 

Lady  Charlton  was  gone  before  she  heard,  or  at  least,  before 
she  appeared  to  hear  Sir  Hugh's  impatient  exclamation  of 
"  Wentworth !  that  was  the  very  thing !  that  fool  Pearson  ! 
why  did  he  not  come  back  ?     Who  are  the  Wentworths  ?  " 

"  Friends  of  ours  at  the  rectory,"  said  Blanche ;  and  her 
voice  acted  with  a  magical  effect  upon  the  irritable  Sir  Hugh, 
who  immediaiely  composed  himself  to  the  semblance  of  a 
deferential  listener.  "  Eleanor  Wentworth  and  I  were  edu- 
cated together,"  continued  Blanche.  "  She  is  my  very  great 
friend." 

"  Ah,  yes,  very  true — very  nice  ;  no  doubt  she  is  charming. 
But  I  thought — you  must  excuse  a  little  impatience,  my  dear, 
the  gout  is  trying,  especially  trying, — for  a  man  of  active  habits, 
in  the  prime  of  life.  I  spoke  rather  eagerly  just  now ;  but  I 
thourrht  I  remembered  the  name  of  Wentworth  abroad." 

"  It  might  have  been  Di-.  Wentworth's  son  ;  he  has  been  tra- 
velling," said  Blanche. 

Sir  Hugh  put  his  finger  to  his  lip,  and  presently,  with  a  sud- 
den start  of  recollection,  exclaimed  ; — 

"  Yes,  I  have  it.  I  remember.  Pearson  knows ; — idiot ! " 
and  the  voice  sank  again  into  an  angry  growl,  "what  a  time  he 
is  at  dinner!" 

Before  Blanche  could  answer,  a  furious  peal  summoned 
Pearson  from  his  repast.  Blanche  could  scarcely  help  smiling 
at  the  insinuating  tone  of  the  servant,  when  compared  with  the 
gesticulation  of  the  master.  Sir  Hugh  burst  forth  without 
preparation,  requiring  Pearson  to  recuUect  all  he  had  ever 
heard  or  known  of  any  one  of  the  name  of  Wentworth  ;  and 
Pearson,  with  the  utmost  composure,  began  a  quiet,  and  rather 
interesting  account  of  Sir  Hugh's  first  acquaintance  with  Mr. 
Wentworth  ;  how  they  had  met  in  Italy,  and  he  believed  Sir 
Hugh  had  told  him  that  Lady  Charlton  had  been  acquainted 
with  his  family ;  and,  no  doubt.  Sir  Hugh  would  recollect  him 
perfectly — a  tall  gentleman,  very  handsome  ;  he  used  to  sing 
with  Miss  Adelaide :  and,  as  Pearson  glanced  doubtingly  at  Sir 
Hugh,  and  saw  a  pleased  smile  on  his  face,  he  ventured  to  add, 
"  People  had  remarked — at  least  he  had  heard  it  said — how 
well  Mr.  Wentworth  and  Miss  Adelaide  danced." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know.  You  may  go  now ;  you  won't  be  wanted 
yet.  Lady  Blanche  will  do  me  the  honour  of  sitting  with  me. 
Go  ;  can't  you  ?  "  and  Pearson  hastened  to  escape  Sir  Hugh's 
lightning  glance.  "  Such  gossips  these  people  are,  my  dear," 
continued  Sir  Hugh  in   his   mildest  voice.      "  Such  intolerable 


THE      earl's      daughter.  73 

gossips  !  One  would  think  I  was  an  old  man  with  no  memory ; 
telling  me  all  those  facts  !  Of  course,  I  recollect !  Mr.  Wtiit- 
worth  was  a  handsome  young  man,  certainly  ;  he  danced 
attendance  upon  Adelaide.  Lady  Charlton  crew  fi'ighten^.d ; 
but  it  was  all  nonsense ;  Adelaide  is  a  great  deal  too  sensible — 
a  shrewd  giil  you  will  iind  out— not  equal  to  Maude.  Mav.de 
is  a  genius,  plays,  sings,  draws — there  was  a  copy  of  hers,  of  a 
Guido,  Ss  good  as  the  original.  I  should  not  have  known  the 
difference  ;  and  I  am  a  very  good  judge,  as  good  as  the  earl  I 
Hatter  myself;  and  he  has  the  rejiutation  cf  being  a  first-rat(* 
connoisseur.  Uad,  that  is,  some  years  ago  ; — years  you  can't 
remember,  my  dear  Blanche,  for  a  very  good  reason — thf^re 
was  no  Lady  Blanche  then  ;  no  such  bnght  star  in  the  dark 
firmament;"  and  he  bowed  with  the  most  studied  politeress; 
"  except,  if  there  must  be  an  exception, — yo\i  will  nc>t  quarrel 
with  mine — the  countess,  your  mother.  A  charming  woman — - 
a  very  charming  woman."  Sir  Hugh  paused  to  take  breath  ; 
he  saw  that  Blanche  had  laid  down  her  woik  at  his  last  words,  and 
was  listening  eagerly  for  the  re'St.  *'  Poor  thing  !  Ah  !  years 
gone  by !  poor  thing !  Yes,  I  remember  perfectly.  Mrs. 
Wentworth  was  here  a  good  deal  in  those  days  ;  she  must  have 
been  this  young  man's  mother.'' 

"  Mrs.  Wentworth  was  a  great  friend  of  dear  mamma's," 
said  Blanche,  speaking  with  an  effort ;  yet  determined,  if  pos- 
sible, to  keep  him  for  a  few  minutes  to  the  point. 

"  Yes,  my  dear — yes,  I  remember.  Mrs.  Wentworth  and  the 
countess,  poor  thing!  "and  the  sigh  which  accompanied  the 
words  evidently  came  from  the  heart.  Blanche's  lingers  moved 
quickly  at  her  work ;  but  it  was  from  nervousness,  not  industry. 
Was  the  sigh  for  her  mother's  death,  or  for  her  life  ?  "  Poor 
thing  ! "  again  began  Sir  Hugh.  "  Your  father  is  altered,  ny 
dear ;  a  gr-eat  blow  that  was — sudden  to  him.  She  was  a  lovely 
creature  !     I  had  a  great  regard  for  her." 

" It  must  ha\e  been  so  sad  for  papa,  being  away  when  she 
<vas  ill,"  observed.Blanche. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so ;  one  can't  tell.  One  can  never  say  !  it 
was  a  very  lonely  life.  But  people  were  mistaken.  A  proud 
man.  Lord  Rutherford ;  very  natural  pride,  my  dear ;  don't 
tiiink  I  find  fault  with  it.  A  very  p^roud  man  !  Nobody 
knows  him  thoroughly  that  has  not  lived  with  him  for  years. 
Lady  Charlton  and  I,  of  course,  are  intimately  acquainted  with 
his  character,  but  other  people  talked  great  nonsense.  How- 
ever, I  always  understood  him.     We  had  tastes  in  common. 


74  THE      EARLS      DAUGHTER. 

lie  was  devoted  to  geology.  I  gave  him  introductions  when 
he  went  abroad,  and  they  were  of  great  use  to  hirn.  I  wanted 
him  to  take  notes,  and  write.  I  told  him  I  would  assist.  If 
he  would  have  given  the  foots,  I  would  have  dressed  them — 
adoj)ted  them  and  clothed  them  :  they  should  have  been  my 
'  entans  trouves  ; ' "  and  Sir  II ugh  laughed  so  long  and  heartily 
at  his  own  wit,  that  he  did  not  perceive  how  little  his  compa- 
nion sympathised  with  his  mirth. 

"  That  is  the  luncheon-bell,  I  think,"  said  Blanche,  vising,  and 
collecting  her  work. 

"  Luncheon !  so  late  is  it  ?  But  time  passes  so  rapidly 
'  With  thee  conversing' — you  know  the  rest.' 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is  easier  to  forget  times  and  seasons  than 
luncheon,"  said  Blanche ;  "  but  I  cannot  leave  you  alone.  May 
I  ring  for  Pearson  ?" 

"  Ah  !  thoughtful  as  you  are !  it  is  quite  reversing  the  natu- 
ral order.  A  sad  enemy  is  the  gout ;  very  sad,  indeed,  to  an 
active  man  in  the  prime  of  life  ; — a  sad  enemy  !" 

Sir  Hugh  shook  his  head  long  and  dolefully,  but  would  not 
allow  Blanche  to  do  anything  for  him.  "  It  would  distress  him 
too  much,"  he  said  ;  "  it  was  unnatural,  improper — her  society, 
that  was  all  he  required — he  had  been  so  flattered,  so 
honoured;"  and,  with  the  words  still  ringing  in  her  ears, 
Blanche  at  hist  contrived  to  escape  to  the  drawing-room. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

"  And  so  the  Wentworths  will  not  come,  Blanche,"  said  Lord 
Rutherford,  as  his  daughter  seated  herself  at  the  luncheon-table. 
"  Dr.  VVentworth  has  a  prior  engagement." 

"  Not  come  !  How  veiy  disappointing  !  May  I  see  the 
note?" 

It  was  from  Mrs.  "Wentworth,  polite  and  chilling.  Blanche 
said  nothing,  but  looked  very  vexed. 

"  I  grive  for  the  failure  of  my  first  attempts  for  society, 
Adelaide,"  said  the  earl,  addressing  his  niece.  "  Only  remem- 
ber, it  really  is  not  my  fault." 

Blanche  took  up  the  note  again  to  examine  it.  "  A  prior 
engagement  is  so  odd.  Eleanor  must  have  known  that  I  should 
want  her ;  and  they  are  not  going  out  I  am  nearly  sure,  unless 
it  may  be  Mr.  AVentworth.     He  returned  yesterday,  I  believe." 


THE      EARLS      D  A  U  G  H  T  E  K  .  75 

Adelaide  Charlton  looked  up  ecigerly  ;  but  her  mother's  eye 
was  tixed  upon  her,  and  the  eagerness  vented  itself  in  a  quick 
demand  for  some  bread. 

"  That  must  be  our  Mr.  Wentworth,"  said  Maude,  speaking 
in  a  deep,  but  peculiarly  mellow  voice,  which  was  yet  disagree- 
ably abrupt.     ^  He  said  he  came  from  Rutherford." 

"  I  thoun-ht  he  was  living  away,"  observed  Lady  Charlton. 

Her  tone  struck  Blanche  directly  :  it  was  new  to  her;  there 
was  more  gravity  and  sternness  in  it  than  she  was  prepared  for. 

"  Young  Wentworth  is  a  handsome  man,"  said  the  earl,  care- 
lessly ;  "  but  he  is  too  much  of  a  coxcomb  to  be  a  gentleman." 

'•  Those  travelled  young  men  very  often  are,"  observed  Lady 
Charlton.  "  It  is  '  We  and  the  world'  with  them  ;  and  really, 
at  last,  one  is  disgusted  in  spite  of  oneself." 

"  But  Mr.  Wentworth  must  be  superior  to  that  class,  I 
think,"  said  Blanche  ;  "  his  sister  is  so  fond  of  him." 

"  And  you  swear  by  his  sister  then  ?"  asked  Maude,  sharply, 

Blanche  was  rather  startled,  and  did  not  know  what  to 
rejily. 

"  Maude,  my  dear ;  you  really  must  be  careful  in  your  ex- 
pressions. Lord  Rutherford  will  think  you  a  complete  Goth," 
said  Lady  Charlton. 

"  Give  me  a  better  word,"  answered  Maude,  "  and  I  will 
use  it." 

"  Maude's  favourite  theory,"  said  Lady  Charlton,  addressing 
the  earl.  "  I  must  tell  you  of  it,  to  prepare  you  for  anything 
strange  you  may  hear.  She  says — Avhat  is  it,  my  dear  Maude  I 
Explain  your  own  notions ;  you  will  do  it  much  better  than  1 
shall." 

Lord  Rutherford  assumed  a  listening  attitude ;  but  it  was 
clear  that  he  was  perfectly  indifferent,  and  Maude  raised  her 
piercing  grey  eyes  to  his  face,  and  said : 

"  My  notions  are,  that  I  should  like  a  piece  of  cake ;  if  my 
UJicle  will  be  good  enough  to  cut  it." 

Lord  Rutherford  complied  with  the  request,  and  did  not 
trouble  himself  to'  ask  for  any  further  explanation  of  Maude's 
n(_)tions.  Blanche  was  still  silent,  pondering  upon  Eleanor 
Wentworth 's  refusal,  and  a  sudden  check  seemed  to  have  been 
put  to  Adelaide's  usual  vivacity.  The  party  was  becoming 
dull ;  and  Lady  Charlton,  who  dreaded  dulness  as  an  enemy, 
endeavoured  to  infuse  a  little  spirit  into  it  by  inquiring  what 
were  the  afternoon  plans.  Blanche  observed  that  the  refusal 
bad  rather  disturbed  them  ;  for  I'lleanor   Wentworth,  she  had 


76  THE    Ej^rl's    daughter. 

hoped,  would  have  formed  one  of  a  riding  party  with  them  :  at 
least,  with  AdcUade  and  herself.  Maude,  she  understood,  very 
seldom  rode. 

"  No,  never ;   except   by  myself,"  was   Maude's   ungracious 

answer. 

"  Papa  talked  of  taking  you  and  my  aunt  for  a  drive,"  con- 
tinued Blanche,  with  a  slight  air  of  restraint,  caused  insensibly 
in-  her  cousin's  manner ;  "  and  Sir  Hugh"— 
"  "  Oh !  never  mind  Sir  Hugh,  my  love,"  exclaimed  Lady 
Charlton.  "  Pearson  will  take  care  of  him.  He  will  not  be  in 
a  condition  to  move  for  the  next  week.  But  he  is  quite  happy  ; 
don't  distress  yourself  about  him  :  he  wants  nothing  excef^t  his 
new  book  on  geology.  A  great  blessing  it  is,"  she  added  more 
gravely,  "  that  he  can  occupy  himself:  he  is  devottd  to 
science." 

"  Blanche,"  said  the  earl,  rising  suddenly,  "  can  you  come 
with  me  and  look  at  the  shrubs  they  have  been  'planting  this 
morning  on  the  bank  ?  We  will  prepare  for  the  driving  and 
riding  afterwards,  if  your  aunt  and  your  cousins  will  arrange 
together  what  they  wish  to  do." 

He  threw  open  the  window,  and  walked  out  upon  the  ter- 
race. Blanche  followed  him  with  a  sensation  of  freedom  and 
pleasure.  The  earl  drew  her  arm  within  his  :  he  did  not  take 
her  to  see  the  shrubs ;  but,  when  they  reached  the  end  of  the 
terrace,  he  turned  again,  and  continued  to  walk  without  speak- 
ing ;  though  once  he  passed  his  hand  caressingly  over  hers,  and 
looked  in  her  face  and  smiled  :  and  Blanche  had  learnt  to  value 
such  a  look.  Lord  Piutherford's  laugh  was  for  the  world ;  his 
smiles  were  almost  exclusively  for  her.  He  stopped  at  length 
and  drew  a  long  breath,  and  in  a  light  tone  exclaimed,  "  AVell, 
Blanche  !  we  are  alone  again ;  shall  we  remain  so  ?" 

Blanche  hesitated.  "  1  have  not  made  up  my  mind,  papa  : — 
it  is  such  a  very  early  day.     I  like  them." 

"  Like  them, — yes,  I  suppose  you  do.  But  it  is  not  duty,  is 
it  ?     I  never  wish  you  to  like  any  one  from  duty." 

Blanche  laughed  faintly ;  she  had  already  learnt  that  duty 
was  not  in  her  father's  catalogue  of  allowable  motives.  "  No  : 
I  suppose  it  is  not  from  duty  ;  but  feelings  are  such  mixed 
things,  it  is  hard  to  analyze  them.  I  am  not  sure  that  I  shall 
love  them,"  she  added,  more  boldly  ;  "  except,  that  is,  my  aunt." 

"  Lady  Charlton  is  a  very  sensible  woman,"  said  the  earl.  "  1 
never  knew  her  to  do  but  one  foohsh  thing  in  her  life.  That 
scatter-brained  piece  of  pomposity,  Sir  Hugh !  how  could  she 
marry  him  J" 


THE      earl's     daughter.  "JT 

"  Yes ;  it  is  strange,  very  strange,''  said  Blanche,  thoughtfully  ; 
"she  is  so  superior, — she  could  never  have  loved  him," 

"  Blanche,  my  child,  you  must  learn  to  put  aside  youi 
roniance,"  said  the  earl  genth^,  but  seriously.  "  There  are  mor« 
marriages  in  the  world  without  love  than  you,  in  your  sirajjlicity, 
can  imagine.  I  do  not  wonder  at  Lady  Charlton's  marrying 
without  love — no  one  who  has  had  any  experience  of  life  could 
do  so-^-but  it  is  marvellous  that,  when  she  was  resolved  upon  a 
sacrifice,  she  should  have  devoted  herself  for  nothing, — absolutely 
nothing,"  he  added,  angrily. 

"  Yet  she  must  have  loved  him,  too,  I  suppose,"  said  Blanche, 
musingly.  "  If  there  was  nothing  else,  it  must  have  been  love  • 
I  should  not  like  to  think  it  Wiis  not." 

"  Not  hke  it !"  said  the  earl.  "Why,  what  could  it  signify 
to  you  ?" 

"  Because,"  replied  Blanche,  and  the  colour  deepened  on  het 
cheek,  and  she  spoke  hurriedly — "because  it  seems  a  false  thing 
to  do  to  marry  without  it ;  it  is  an  untruth  ;  it  cannot  really 
bring  a  blessing:  at  least,  I  think  not, — it  seems  to  me,"  she 
added,  timidly,  as  if  ashamed  of  her  own  eagerness. 

The  earl  paused  ;  his  voice  wns  altered  when  he  spoke  again  ; 
it  was  low  and  tremulous.  "  And  you  believe  that  love  must 
bring  a  blessing  ;  that  it  must  be  happiness,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  real,  true,  holy  love,"  replied  Blanche :  "  surely  it  must 
be  so." 

"  It  may  be, — one  cannot  tell,"  answered  the  earl  ;  and 
then,  in  an  under  tone,  he  added,  "  Yet  it  is  a  dream, — ar 
unreality." 

"  Tliat  is  not  what  peojile  generally  think  it  ;  is  it  ?"  said 
Blanche,  quickly,  for  she  was  struck  by  the  peculiarity  of  his 
manner.  ■ 

"  They  call  it  happiness,"  said  the  earl  ;  "  but  they  do  not 
know  their  own  meaning.  Happiness!"  he  repeated,  bitterly  ; 
"  no,  happiness  is  for  the  cold  and  calculating  ;  for  those  who 
can  trust  themselves,  who  know  their  own  weakness,  and  can 
foresee  the  consequences  of  their  own  actions.  Love  is  impulse, 
feeling,  excitement." 

"  But  there  is  something  in  it  besides,  calmer  and  deeper," 
replied  Blanche;  "or  it  could  never  last:  and  marriage  would 
be  miserable,  most  miserable,"  she  added,  earnestly. 

Lord  Rutherford  sto{)ped  suddenly  in  his  walk.  "  Did  you 
ever  hear  of  a  miserable  marriage,  Blanche  ?"  he  said, 
quickly. 


1 8  THE       EARLS      DATIGIITER. 

"  In  books,  people  have  said  it. ;  there  are  such  thin^," 
replied  l>lanoJie,  ahnost  frightened  by  his  manner. 

lie  laui^hed  sarcastically.  "  Yes,  in  another  sphere, — in  the 
world,  the  dieamy  woi-Id  ;  not  in  the  real  Utopia  of  St.  Ebbg's.' 
He  was  cooing  to  turn  again  on  the  terrace  ;  but,  checkino 
himself,  added,  in  his  usual  tone,  "  This  is  but  idle  ttdking.  Go 
to  your  aunt,  Blanche,  and  settle  what  you  will.  I  will  ride 
with  you,  if  you  wish  it."  He  did  not  wait  for  question  or 
re])Iy,  but  sti-ode  down  the  walk  which  led  to  the  river's  bank, 
and  was  soon  lost  to  siglit  amongst  the  thick  trees. 

"You  are  not  going  out  with  Adelaide,  merely  to  please  her, 
my  love  ?"  said  Lady  Charlton,  as  Blanche,  about  half  an  ho  ir 
afterwards,  came  into  the  room  dressed  in  her  riding-habit,  and 
looking  rather  grave. 

Blanche  brightened  in  an  instant,  and  said  that  riding  was  her 
favourite  exercise  :  but  her  aunt  did  not  seem  satis6ed. 

"  We  shall  not  stay  with  you,  my  dear,  if  you  ailow  us  to 
interrupt  your  usual  habits.  You  are  very  busy,  I  am  sure. 
No  one  could  have  been  educated  by  Mrs.  Uoward  without 
being  so." 

"  Mrs.  Howard  is  so  good  with  her  business,"  exclaimed 
Blanche  ;  "  she  is  so  really  useful  :  what  I  liave  to  do  is  very 
little.  I  am  sure,  if  she  could  be  here,  she  would  put  me  in  the 
way  of  doing  a  great  deal  more." 

"But  she  is  coming  to  you,  is  she  not?"  inquired  Lady 
Charlton.  "  I  am  sure  I  heard  your  father  say  something 
about  it." 

"  She  was  to  have  come  ;  but  she  has  been  obliged  to  delay  : 
one  of  her  nieces  is  ill,"  said  Blanche.  "  I  am  longing  for  her, 
to  help  me  in  everything ;  to  make  me  methodical  and  ener- 
getic, and  like  hei-self,  if  she  could,"  she  added,  laughing. 

Lady  Charlton  began  the  fii-st  words  of  a  compliment,  but 
stopped.  "  I  wont  say  what  I  was  going  to  say,  my  dear  ;  I 
don't  think  it  would  be  in  your  way,  though  it  would  be  true  : 
and  I  will  not  otfer  to  take  Mrs.  Howard's  place, — that  would 
be  out  of  the  question  ;  but  you  must  let  me  know  if  I  can  ever 
be  of  any  use  to  you.  I  dare  say  you  go  about  amongst 
the  poor  people.  Your  dear  mother  always  did,"  she  said,  with 
a  change  of  tone  which  made  Blanche's  heart  thrill,  though  she 
could  not  trust  herself  at  that  moment  to  answer  the  allusion. 

"  I  go  sometimes,"  was  all  she  replied. 

Lady  Charlton  drew  near  and  kissed  her  tenderly.  "  You 
shall  let  me  go  with  you  :  I  shall  hke  it.     It  will  seem  that  the 


THE      EARL    S      DAUGHTER.  79 

old  times  are  come  back — quite — when  I  look  at  you,"  she 
added,  gazing  in  Blanche's  face  with  a  sad  smile. 

Blanche  returned  the  kiss,  and,  unfastening  a  brooch  wliich 
she  always  wore,  showed  a  miniature,  exquisitely  painted. 
"  Will  you  tell  me  if  it  is  like  ?"  she  said.  "  I  have  been  afraid 
to  ask  papa."'' 

Lady  Charlton  took  the  brooch  in  her  hand,  and  turned  to 
the  li^ht.  She  was  looking  at  it  attentively,  and  Blanche, 
leaning  over  her,  was  waiting  with  great  interest  for  her  opinion. 
Lord  Rutherford  came  to  the  window.  Blanche,  by  a  kind  of 
instinct,  took  the  brooch  hastily  from  her  aunt ;  but  not  before 
the  earl  had  remarked  it. 

"  A  new  trinket,  Blanche  ?"  he  exclaimed  cheerfully,  "  Let 
me  see." 

Blanche's  hand  shook,  and  the  brooch  fell  to  the  ground.  The 
earl  stooped  to  pick  it  up.  There  wjxs  a  silence  of  some 
moments. 

Lady  Charlton  said,  "  It  is  very  like,"  and  held  out  her  hand 
for  it. 

"  The  carriage  is  waiting,"  was  all  Lord  Rutherford's  reply. 

He  walked  away,  and  Lady  Charlton,  as  she  returned  the 
brooch  to  Blanche,  said,  "  Yoa  shall  talk  to  me,  my  love  ;  it  is 
not  a  subject  for  him." 


CHArTER   XIV. 

The  first  determination  which  Blanche  formed  the  next  day 
was  that  she  would  go  to  the  parsonage  early.  The  disap- 
pointment of  the  preceding  afternoon  had  vexed  her  consider- 
ably, and  she  was  resolved  not  to  run  the  risk  of  another 
refusal.  She  would  go  herself  and  make  the  request,  and  then 
it  could  not,  she  hoped,  be  denied. 

The  subject  wgs  mentioned  casually  at  breakfast.  Blanche 
began  to  feel  herself  sufficiently  at  home  with  her  aunt  and 
cousins  to  leave  them  to  themselves,  and  said  she  should  go 
to  the  rectory  the  first  thing,  and  engage  Eleanor  for  the 
day  ;  "  and  we  will  walk,  if  you  like  it,  in  the  afternoon," 
she  added,  addressing  Lady  Charlton,  "  I  must  go  into  the 
village." 

"  Must!  my  love,"  exclaimed  the  earl,  quickly.  "Who  says 
mast  to  you  ?" 


80  THE      E  A  K  L '  S      DAUGHTER. 

"  T  say  it  to  myself,"  replied  Blanche,  smiling  :  "  it  is  not  ac 
imperative  must ;  only  my  aunt  said  she  would  like  to  go  with 
me  sometimes  ;  and " 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  certainly,"  interposed  Lady  Charlton  ;  "  of 
all  things  I  shall  like  to  accompany  you ;  but  to-day,  I  rather 
think,  i  have  an  engagement.  A  great  friend  of  mine,  Mrs. 
Cuthbert  Grey,  is  staying  in  this  neighbourhood,  and  I  promised 
to  go  and  see  her  when  I  canje  here.  She  is  on  a  visit  to  the 
Donningtons.  I  think  I  had  better  take  advantage  of  the  fair 
weather.     Ady,  what  do  you  say  ?" 

Adelaide  answered  carelessly  that,  if  It  must  be,  she  supposed 
it  had  better  be ;  but  that  Maude  would  do  just  as  well  as  her- 
self. "  I  shall  go  with  Blanche  this  morning,  if  I  may," 
she  continued.  "  Blanche,  you  will  take  me  to  the  rectory ;  I 
delight  in  walking  the  first  thing  after  breakfast." 

"  Immensely  intimate,"  said  Maude,  in  her  cold  sepulchral 
tone ;  "  the  civility  must  be  for  Mr.  Wentworth  :  you  don't 
know  any  one  else." 

"  You  will  stay  at  home,  Ady,"  interrupted  Lady  Charlton, 
glancing  quickly  at  the  earl ;  but  he  was  now  engrossed  in  the 
newspaper,  and  knew  nothing  that  was  passing. 

Blanche  was  puzzled  for  an  instant,  but  took  the  matter  sim- 
ply, and  assured  them  that  ceremony  with  the  Wentworths 
would  be  quite  unnecessary.  They  met  every  day.  If  Adelaide 
liked  to  go,  she  might  do  so  easily. 

"She  will  stay  at  home,  my  dear,"  repeated  Lady  Charlton, 
decii!edly ;  and  of  course  the  question  was  supposed  to  be 
settled. 

BTit  Blanche  stood  at  the  green  gate  of  the  rectory,  and  was 
trying  to  open  it,  when  she  heard  some  one  behind  lier  say, 
laughingly,  "  Where  there  is  a  will  there  is  a  way,  Blanche. 
Did  3-ou  never  hear  that  before  ?  An  exceedingly  romantic 
spot  this  for  a  parsonage,  I  must  say." 

Blanche  was  silent  from  surprise. 

"  1  can  open  the  gate,  I  dare  say,"  continued  Adelaide  ;  "  or 
— look,  there  is  Mr.  Wentworth." 

Blanche  was  excessively  annoyed,  and  answered  coollv,  that 
she  would  not  trouble  Mr.  Wentworth ;  she  should  leave  a  mes- 
sage for  E!eanor,  and  go  back. 

"  When  you  have  come  on  purpose  to  see  her  ?  I  am  sure 
you  will  not  do   anything  of  the   kind :  you  could  not  be  so 

cipricious.     ]\Ir.  Wentworth "  and  as  the  gentleman  drew 

near,    Adelaide    held    out    her    hand  with    the    ease   of    an 


THE    earl's    daughter.  81 

old  acquaintance.  "  How  very  strange  !  Where  did  vou  drop 
from  r 

Mr.  Wentworth  reciprocated  the  surprise,  expressed  a  due 
amount  of  pleasure,  and  threw  open  the  gate. 

Adelaide  waited  for  her  cousin  to  go  forward  ;  but  Blanche 
paused  resolutely.  "  Thank  you,"  she  said,  addressing  Mr. 
Wentworth,  "  but  I  am  afraid  I  must  return  now.  Since  we 
have  met  yftu,  perhaps  you  will  do  me  the  favour  to  deliver  a 
message  to  Eleanor.  I  want  her  very  much  to  spend  the  day 
with.rme,  and  to  come  as  early  as  possible.  Mrs.  Wentworth  is 
quite  well,  I  hope  ?" 

"  Quite,  thank  you  ;  but  surely, — indeed.  Lady  Blat  ihe,  you 
must  not  go  back  without  seeing  my  mother  ;  she  will  be 
vexed  if  you  don't ;  you  have  given  yourself  so  much  trouble." 

"Only  a  pleasant  walk,"  rejilied  Blanche.  "Pray  say  to 
Mrs.  Wentworth  how  sorry  we  were  she  could  not  dine  with 
us  yesterday.  Good  morning."  She  bowed,  and  turned  away ; 
but  Adelaide  was  already  within  the  gate.  Such  a  bewitching 
rose  she  had  seen  ! — amongst  the  briers, — nearly  hidden  it 
was, — Mr.  Wentworth  must  give  it  her. 

Mr.  Wentworth  plunged  into  the  thicket,  and  Adelaide  still 
advanced.  Blanche  could  not  le'.  her  go  on  alone,  for  the  next 
moment  she  would  be  in  front  of  the  house :  and  so  she  was  ; 
and  not  only  before  the  house,  but  before  the  whole  family 
party,  who  were  talking  together  on  the  lawp.  Blanche  had 
nothing  to  do  but  to  go  up  to  ttem,  and  introduce  her  cousin 
and  a|)oIogize ;  though  the  apology  was  a  difficulty,  for  her 
gentle  spirit  was  very  considerably  roused. 

Setting  aside  the  neglect  of  Lady  Charlton's  wishes,  Adelaide 
was  unquestionably  rude  to  herself,  and  Blanche  had  never 
experienced  rudeness  before.  Mrs.  Wentworth  received  the 
excuse  for  the  intrusion  politely,  but  without  any  cordiality  ; 
and  even  Eleanor's  warm  kiss  and  exclamation  of  clelight,  could 
n  >t  take  away  the  general  awkwardness.  Adelaide  alone  was 
quite  at  her  ease,  and  admired  the  house  and  garden  in  a  tone 
of  easy  familiaiity,  not  unmixed  with  patronage,  which  made 
Mrs.  Wt-ntworth's  civility  freeze  into  a  stift'iiess  nearly  amounting 
lo  haughtiness. 

Tile  restraint,  however,  was  at  an  end,  when  both  Dr.  and 
.Mrs.  Wentworth  were  called  away.  Then  Eleanor  and  Blanche 
strolled  to  a  distance  by  themselves ;  and  Adelaide,  declaring 
that  the  walk  had  tired  her,  and  therefore  she  would  wait  till 
they  I'eturned,  threw  herself  upon  a  garden-bench,  and  began 


go  THE      EARLS      DAUGHTER. 

a  quiok,  huigliing  convcrsalion  of  reminiscences  willi  Mr.  ^Yont 
worth. 

"  You  are  worried,  Blanclie,"  was  Eleanor's  first  observation, 
when  they  w-re  beyond  hearing.  "  You  have  never  looked  as 
vou  do  now  since  the  days  when  we  used  to  puzzle  over  Dante 
together." 

""  I  wish  it  was  a  Dante  worry  now,"  replied  Blanche ;  ''  1 
could  understand  that;  but  really  to  be  angry  and  uncomfort- 
able without  knowing  why,  is  wither  trying." 

"  Are  thino-s  going  wrong  at  the  castle  ?"  inquired  Eleanor. 

"  Oh,  no  !  not  in  the  least, — that  is,  I  suppose  they  are  not ; 
but  new  people  fret  me  and  puzzle  me.  1  don't  know  what 
they  mean ;  and  Adelaide  Charlton  is  so  peiievering, — so 
wilful,  I  suppose  Mrs.  Howard  would  say  :  and  her  inanner  is 
— I  can't  tell  what  to  call  it — but  excessively  disagreeable." 

Eleanor  laughed  heartily.  "  Mow,  that  really  is  deliglitful, 
Blanche,  to  find  that  you  can  be  severe  like  the  rest  of  the 
world." 

"  It  is  not  for  myself,"  continued  Blanche  ;  "really  I  should 
not  care  what  she  did  or  said  with  me  ;  we  are  cousins,  and  it 
does  not  signify:  but  it  must  look  very  strange  to  your  mother. 
By  Adv'Iaide's  tone,  I  should  have  fancied  her  to  have  been 
your  intitnate  friend  for  years." 

"  Knowing  Charles  well,  makes  her  at  home  with  us,  I 
suppose,"  replied  Eleanor :  "  he  said  to  me  yesterday  that  he 
knew  her  in  Italy.  But  do  forget  her  oddity,  Blanche,  if  you 
can,  and  tell  me  how  you  are  going  on  altogether." 

Blanche  sighed,  and  then  laughed.  "  I  can't  tell,  and  I  don't 
know  anything ;  I  believe  I  am  quite  cross  this  morning.  The 
castle  seems  in  a  com[)lete  bustle.  My  aunt  luis  brought  such 
innumerable  servants,  I  stumble  upon  a  new  face  in  every 
corner.  And  it  is  so  noisy  to  what  it  was:  even  when  I  am 
alone,  the  atmosphere  of  bustle  seems  to  be  around  me.  More- 
over, I  suspect  I  shall  see  exceedingly  little  of  papa  ;  for  you 
know  it  is  not  really  seeing  him,  talking  in  a  common  way, 
when  other  people  are  present :  and  Sir  Hugh  has  taken  posses- 
sion of  the  library,  so  that  1  can't  get  the  books  I  want;  and 
Adelaide  sings  snatches  of  songs  to  the  piano,  and  will  not 
practise  a  single  thing  steadily  with  me  ;  and  Maude  reads  and 
says  nothing,  but  looks  as  if  she  was  not  at  all  happy.  In  fact, 
Eleanor,  I  suspect  I  am  immensely  selfish  ; — I  mean  it  in 
2arnest !" 

Again  Eleanor  laughed,  and  expressed  lierself  charmed  to 


THE    earl's    daughter.  83 

6nd  that  Blanche  could  descend  to  the  level  of  humanity,  and 
be  tormented  by  trifles.  "  Put  out ;  actually  put  out,"  slie 
exclaimed  ;  "  as  I  am  when  Susan  says  her  lessons  badly." 

Blanche  was  silent  fur  a  few  momenta.  She  was  full  of 
thought.  "  There  is  a  way  of  taking  things,  I  am  sure,"  slie 
Baid  ;  "  a  right  way  and  a  wrong.  Just  as  when  one  begins  to 
wind  a  skein  of  silk  ;  if  one  can  find  the  right  end,  it  all  runs 
smoothly ;  -and  if  one  begins  with  the  wrong,  it  must  be 
entangled.  "When  I  can  understand  them  all  better,  perhaps  I 
mayjae  able  to  find  the  right  end.  Just  now  there  seems  an 
entanglement ; — wills  and  ways  mixing.  They  neyer  mixed  at 
St.  Ebbe's." 

"  My  dear  Blanche,  how  exceedingly  amusing  !"  exclaimed 
Eleanor ;  "  but  you  never  were  in  a  home  before, — I  forgot. 
You  don't  understand  what  it  is  for  grown-up  people  to  live 
together.  Why  that  sort  of  mixing  of  wills  and  ways,  as  you 
call  it,  goes  on  perpetually  liere." 

"  Does  it  ?"  said  Blanche.     "  But  how  do  j'ou  manage  ?" 

"  I  go  my  own  way,  and  let  other  people  go  theirs,"  said 
Eleanor  lightly ;  "  and  things  come  round  again." 

"  But  I  don't  see  exactly  how  it  can  be  here,"  observed 
Blanche.  "  Your  father  and  mother  are  so  good,  and  your 
brother — " 

"  Ah  !"  interrupted  Eleanor,  "  that  is  the  point.  Charles  is 
delightful,  exceedingly  clever,  and  he  can  talk  amusingh-,  and 
sketch,  and -sing  duets,  and  rave  about  Italy;  there  is  no  one 
like  him.  But  it  does  not  quite  do;  it  does  not  suit  papa  and 
mamma:  they  think  a-clergyman  ought  to  be  graver,  and  they 
don't  know  what  Charles  is  really  like ;  and  so  they  are  vexed 
with  him ;  and  he  is  provoked,  and  complains  to  me,  and  takes 
up  my  time  in  listening  to  him  :  and  then  Susan  is  idle  because 
I  d^n't  attend  to  her,  and  mamma  is  angry  with  me  because  she 
says  I  neglect  my  duties ;  and  there  is  a  history  of  my  home, 
Blanche ;  so  now  choose  between  the  two."  Blanche  did  not 
attempt  to  choose.  A  shadow  of  the  deeper  anxiety  which  was 
for  ever  corroding  her  peace,  crossed  her  niind  :  and  the  lighter 
evils  of  which  they  had  both  been  complaining,  melted  into 
nothing.  Adelaide  Charlton's  laugh  just  then  reached  th^m. 
Elt'Mnor  stopped  and  listened. 

"  She  is  liappy,"  said  Blanche,  gravely. 

Eleanor  looked  round  in  wonder.  "  That  from  you,  Blanche ' 
One  Would  suppose  you  envied  her." 

"  Oh  1  no,  never ;  but  I  suppose  it  is  natural  to  some  people 


84  THE      EARLS      DAUGHTER. 

not  to  tl link.  However,  I  did  not  come  here  to  moralize;  wa 
must  settle  what  we  will  do  to-day.  You  will  come  to  the 
castle  a.s  soon  as  you  possibly  can  ;  and  then  we  will  walk,  i( 
vou  like  it,  in  the  afternoon.  My  aunt  is  going  to  pay  visits, 
and  I  tlii)ught  you  and  I  might  go  together  to  see  poor  Susan- 
nah Dyer." 

Eleanor  hesitated  for  an  instant.  "  You  are  going  to  walk  ?" 
she  repeated  in  a  musing  tone. 

"  Yes  ;  do  you  see  any  objection  ;  wo  aid  you  rather  not  ?  I 
thought,  as  it  was  our  settled  day,  we  had  better  not  put  it  off." 

"  is  it  our  day  ?     I  had  forgotten,"  said  Eleanor. 

"  Yes,  on  Thursdays  we  agreed  to  go  ;  and  as  my  aunt  will 
probably  be  here  a  long  time,  it  seemed  desirable  not  to  give  up 
one's  usual  duties,  if  it  could  be  helj)ed.  My  aunt  does  not 
wish  it ;  she  told  me  so  yesterday ;  and  she  half  offered  to  go 
with  me  herself." 

"  Lady  Charlton  !"  exclaimed  Eleanor. 

"  Yes  ;  she  is  not  at  all  what  I  know  you  fancied  her  ;  she  i? 
not  in  the  least  a  tine  lady.  I  put  her  out  of  my  catalogue  of 
worries,  for  she  is  delightful." 

"  But  she  will  not  go  with  us,"  observed  Eleanor. 

"  No,  because  of  the  visit ;  we  shall  have  the  afternoon  to 
ourselves.     Dear  Eleanor !  I  shall  enjoy  it  so  very  much." 

Eleanor  could  not  hel[)  being  pleased.  The  tone  of  Blanche's 
voice  was  in  itself  sufficiently  animating  to  dis|iel  the  feeling  of 
distrust  which  was  contiimally  lurking,  though  unperceived,  in 
licr  mind.  She  agreed  that  it  would  be  very  pleasant,  and  very 
right ;  and  began  to  discover  decided  reasons  why  it  was  ne- 
cessary they  should  go — the  chief  being,  that  as  they  had  pro- 
mised it  would  be  necessary  to  keep  the  engagement,  and  that 
poor  Susannah  Dyer  being  blind,  and  helpless,  and  ill,  had  a 
particular  claim  upon  them. 

"  And  now  I  must  go  back,"  said  Blanche,  when  the  point 
was  settled.  "  Back  to  my  duties.  Such  strange  ones  they 
are,  Eleanor;  so  unfitted  for  me  ;  at  least,  so  unlike  all  that  I 
should  have  formed  for  myself." 

"  To  stay  in  the  drawing-room,  and  play  the  agreeable,  and  be 
referred  to  as  the  lady  of  the  house,"  said  Eleanor.  "  I  shall 
like  to  come  and  see  how  you  behave." 

"  No,  you  would  not  like  it,"  exclaimed  Blanche,  energeti- 
cally. "  One  never  does  like  to  see  people  out  of  their  sphere  ; 
mine  most  decidedly  is  not  to  rule.  You  must  .^ee  my  aunt,' 
Eleanor-,  she  is  the  person  to  be  at  the   head  of  affaire;  you 


THE      EARLS      DAUGHTER.  85 

would  say  at  once,  that  she  could  decide  every  question  brought 
before  her,  and  could  tell  precisely  how,  and  why,  and  when, 
everything  should  he  done.  Papa  says  she  has  inunense  tact, 
and  I  think  I  can  see  it.  There  is  an  indesciibable  something 
about  her  which  is  very  charming ;  her  walk,  the  turn  of  her 
head,  her  smile — and  very  handsome  she  is  too  !  handsome  fur 
her  age  ;  she  must  have  been  beautiful." 

"  I  shall-'be  afraid  of  her,"  said  Eleanor,  coldly  and  proudly. 

"  Oh  !  indeed,  I  don't  think  you  Avill ;  though  one  or  two 
things  make  me  think  she  might  be  alarming  if  she  chose 
it.  I  doubt  whether  Maude  or  Adelaide  get  on  with  her ; 
she  seems  very  short  with  them  ;  and  Maude  shuts  herself  up 
the  moment  her  mother  comes  into  the  room.  As  for  Ade- 
laide, she  rattles  ou  always ;  but  there  is  a  ditference  even  in 
her." 

"  And  Sir  Hugh,"  inquired  Eleanor  ;  "  what  is  he  like  ?" 

Blanche  appeared  uncertain  how  to  reply,  and  after  waiting 
some  seconds,  laughed  and  said,  "  I  don't  think  it  is  fair  to 
question  me  in  this  manner  about  my  relations  ;  you  shall  come 
and  judge  for  yourself.  But  I  must  go  now,  I  have  been  very 
rude  in  leaving  Adelaide  such  a  time." 

"  I  don't  imagine  Miss  Charlton  thinks  you  rude,"  said 
Eleanor,  looking  towards  her  brother  and  Adelaide.  "  I  doubt 
whether  she  is  tired  of  her  companion." 

Blanche  stood  still,  and  watched  them.  Adelaide,  sitting 
upnght,  was  speaking  quickly ;  and  Mr.  AVentworth,  standing 
before  her,  and  playing  with  a  walking-stick,  was  listening  with 
an  expression — which,  to  Blanche,  seemed  that  of  attentive 
deference. 

'*  He  is  very  handsome,  Blanche  ;  is  he  not  ?"  said  Eleanor. 

Blanche  smiled  thoughtfully.  "  Yes,  very  ;  extremely  hand- 
some. I  am  glad  Adelaide  has  some  one  to  talk  to  that  she 
likes."  She  walked  on  quickly.  Eleanor  would  not  make 
another  observation,  for  she  was  disajipointed.  They  heard 
Mr.  AVentworth  say,  as  they  drew  near,  "  The  charm  is  not  in 
the  place,  but  in  the  people."  lie  spoke  with  feeling ;  but 
Adelaide  only  laughed,  and  rallied  him  for  his  old-fashioned 
sentimentality ;  and  as  Blanche  approached,  thanked  her  tor 
having  interrupted  their  tete-a-tete,  which  she  declared  was 
becoming  tiresome  as  they  had  said  all  they  could  think  of 
Mr.  Wentworth  turned  from  her,  and  addressed  a  few  words  tc 
Blanche;  but,  after  a  short  interval,  Adelaide  again  dexterously 


86  THE    earl's    daughter. 

engaged  liis  attention,  and  kept  up  a  series  of  bantering  re 
partees  till  they  reached  the  shrubbery-gate. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Blanche  returned  home  dissatisfied.  It  was  provoking  to 
have  spent  half  her  morning  without  pleasure  or  profit;  for  her 
conversation  with  Eleanor  had  brought  her  neither.  It  was 
unconnected,  desultory,  and  not  free  from  petulance  and  irrita- 
tion. She  found  Lady  Charlton  and  Maude  in  the  morning- 
room  ;  one  working,  the  other  reading.  Blanche  took  out  her 
drawing  materials.  She  was  determined  to  employ  herself  at 
something  which  would  tone  her  mind,  and  the  drawing  was 
one  which  her  fether  particularly  wished  her  to  copy.  Lady 
Charlton  no  sooner  observed  what  she  was  doing  than  she  left 
her  worsted  frame,  and  stood  by  watching  her,  and  called  to 
Maude  to  come  and  admire ;  but  Maude  only  turned  round 
languidly,  and  contriving  to  peep  at  the  drawing  without  giving 
herself  trouble  said  nothing,  and  returned  to  her  reading. 
Lady  Charlton  laughed  at  her  as  sadly  uncouth  in  manner,  but 
assured  Blanche  that  it  was  always  her  way  ;  she  was  such  a 
first-rate  connoisseur ;  she  would  admire  nothing,  except  Raphael 
and  Guido  and  the  old  Italian  masters :  and  then,  saying  that 
she  must  inquire  if  Sir  Hugh  was  dressed,  she  left  the  loom. 

Blanche  went  on  drawing  and  thinking,  in  a  tranquil  undis- 
turbed state,  which  was  very  soothing.  She  was  copying  a 
Holy  Family  from  an  engraving,  colouring  it  according  to 
her  own  taste ;  and,  as  the  first  soft  hue  brought  out  the 
beautiful  outline  of  the  group,  her  attention  was  more  and 
more  fixed  upon  it.  She  had  no  wish  for  conversation ; 
silence  was  natural  to  her,  especially  since  she  had  lately  spent 
many  hours  alone  ;  and  Maude,  leaning  back  in  her  easy-chair, 
turned  the  leaves  of  her  book  so  quietly,  that  Blanche  soon  lost 
all  consciousness  of  her  presence.  She  finished  the  fiist  tint, 
and,  laying  down  her  brush,  took  up  the  print  to  examine  it 
more  closely.  The  expression  of  the  ditferent  foces  was 
wonderful  ;  pure,  simple,  almost  severe,  in  their  high  spiritual 
beauty.  Blanche  forgot  that  she  was  an  artist;  she  forgot  to 
criticise  or  admire,  and  resting  her  head  upon  her  hand,  shfl 
bent  over  it  rapt  in  thought. 


THE    earl's    daughter.  87 

"  Are  you  dreaming  ?"  was  the  question  which  woke  liei 
from  her  reverie  ;  spoken  in  Maude's  deep  voice  of  melody. 
She  was  standing  at  a  httle  distance  with  a  closed  book  in  her 
hand  ;  a  smile  was  upon  her  lips,  but  it  had  nothing  of  gentle- 
ness in  it.     Blanche  started  as  she  was  addressed. 

"  You  were  dreaming,"  repeated  Maude.  "  Was  it  of  the 
colour  of  Jdsepirs  robe  ?"  and  she  laughed. 

Blanche  took  up  her  pencil  aud  replied,  "  It  is  difficult  not  to 
drejjra  a  little  with  such  a  beautiful  subject  before  one." 

"  It  is  beautiful,  is  it  T'  continued  Maude,  in  the  same  careless 
way.     She  drew  nearer  to  the  table. 

Blanche  moved  her  own  drawing,  and  placed  the  engrri\  ing 
in  a  good  light,  and  then  was  going  away. 

"  iJon't  go,"  said  Maude,  putting  her  hand  upon  her  she  wil- 
der ;  "  tell  me  why  you  like  it  ?" 

"  Why  ?"  and  Blanche's  eye  flashed  with  enthusiasm ; 
"  becavise  it  is  unearthly,  pure  ; — because  it  raises  one's  mind  to 
look  at  it ; — because,"  she  added,  her  voice  uuconsciously 
sinking,  "  it  brings  before  one  the  only  reality." 

She  was  again  going,  but  Maude  a  second  time  detained  her. 
"  Then  you  don't  like  it  because  it  is  a  good  drawing  ?"  she 
said,  abruptly. 

"  In  a  measure  I  do ;  but  that  is  a  different  kind  of  admira- 
tion— it  is  an  artist's,  and  I  am  no  artist." 

Maude.took  the  engraving  in  her  hand,  and  turned  to  the 
light.  "  That  finger  ia  out  of  proportion,"  she  said,  pointing  to 
the  extended  hand  of  the  Virgin.  She  laid  the  print  on  the 
table,  and  gazing  from  the  window,  allowed  Blanche  to  resume 
her  drawing  without  further  comment. 

Blanche  began  her  work  in  a  different  spirit.  She  was  no 
longer  unconscious  that  Maude  was  in  the  room,  her  presence 
oppressed  her,  and  she  could  not  succeed.  Maude  came  be- 
hind her,  and  hummed  a  light  French  air;  and  Blanche,  m 
despair,  laid  down  her  pencil,  and  looking  round,  said  simply, 
"  If  you  don't  mind  very  much — if  you  would  not  think 
me  odd — I  should  be  so  glad  if  you  would  go  away." 

Maude  did  not  move.  "  Which  do  you  like  least,"  she  said : 
"  my  presence,  or  my  song  ?" 

"  I  like  neither,"  rejjlied  Blanche,  laughing. 

"  Don't  you  ?     But  listen  !     I  will  try  something  else." 

She  leant  against  Blanche's  chair  and  paused  for  a  second; 
and  then,  as  if  a  voice  sounded  in  the  far  distance,  the  melody 
of  a  German   Hymn  fell   upon  Blanche's  ear,  soft  at  first,  and 


88  THE    earl's    daughter. 

liquid  in  its  sweetness,  but  gradually  swelling  and  deepening^ 
till  the  full  burst  of  praise  seemed  to  till  the  spacious  room.  It 
ceased  suddenly  as  it  had  begun,  and  there  was  silence. 

A  tear  rolled  down  Blanche's  cheek. 

Maude  pretended  not  to  notice  it,  but  in  her  natural  quick 
manner,  exclaimed,  "You  have  not  told  me  a  word  about  your 
visit  this  morning.  Did  Adelaide  carry  on  her  tlirtation  suc- 
cessfully ?     I  knew  she  would  go." 

"  I  should  like  to  hear  it  again,"  said  Blanche,  unheeding  the 
question  ;  and  looking  up  at  her  cousin  with  a  peculiar  smile — ■ 
hair  of  melancholy,  and  half  of  eager  dehght. 

"  You  like  music,  do  you  ?"  said  Maude.  She  seated  herself 
at  the  piano,  and  touched  a  few  chords,  whilst  Blanche  returned 
to  her  drawing.  Maude  suffered  her  fingers  to  wander  over 
the  keys,  slowly  at  the  commencement,  and  as  it  were  thought 
fuHv ;  but  increasing  in  power  and  force  till  they  moved  with  a 
ra]ii<lity  which  was  electrifying.  But  again  they  sank  into  a 
low  prelude,  and  the  same  clear  flute-like  notes,  which  before 
had  seemed  to  Blanche  as  scarcely  belonging  to  a  human  voice, 
were  blended  with  them.      The  words  were  distinct   as   the 


"  II  passato  non  e 
Ma  se  lo  pinge 
La  viva  remembranza. 
II  fuiuro  non  e, 
Ma  se  lo  finge 
La  credula  speranza. 
II  presente  sol  e, 
Che  in  un  baleno 
Passa  del  nulla  in  seno. 
Dunque  la  vita  e  appunto 
Una  memoria,  una  speranza,  un  punto." 

As  the  song  proceeded,  Blanche's  pencil  dropped  from  her 
hand.  So  surpassingly  sweet  it  was  ;  so  thrilling  in  its  mourn- 
ful melody  ;  so  real  in  its  expression  :  it  seemed  the  true  lan- 
guage in  which  the  vanity  of  human  life  should  be  told. 
Maude  repeated  the  last  lines  to  herself,  whilst  she  carelessly 
turned  the  leaves  of  a  music-book  which  was  open  before  her. 

Blanche  left  her  seat,  and  stood  beside  her. 

"  '  Una  memoria,  una  speranza,  un  punto,' 

und  that  is  all !"  exclaimed  Maude,  looking  round. 

Blanche's  colour  deepened,  and  then  it  faded  quite  away,  as 


THE      EARLS     DAUGHTER.  80 

she  said,  Avliilst  lier  voice  faltered ;  "  Oh !  Maude !  Could  y(>u 
bear  to  think  so?" 

"It  is  truth,"  answered  Maude.  "There  needs  no  ghost 
come  from  the  grave  to  tell  us  of  it."  And  she  sang  the  two 
last  lines  again,  with  an  intensity  of  feeling  which  she  did  not 
attempt  to  check. 

Blanche  stood  with  her  eyes  riveted  upon  her, — drinking  in  the 
sounds  wlrfch  at  each  repetition  seemed  more  and  more  perfect. 

"  T<  11  me,"  exclaimed  Maude,  with  an  air  of  triumph,  as  she 
end^d,  "  What  is  it,  if  it  is  not  so?  AVhere  is  the  past?  In 
what  part  of  the  world  will  you  dig  till  you  can  find  it?" 

"  But  how  can  that  which  has  been  cease  to  be  ?"  said 
Blanche,  raising  her  eyes  timidly  to  her  cousin's  face. 

Maude  paused ;  and  regarding  her  steadily,  said,  "  Are  you 
a  child,  Blanche,  or  a  woman  ?" 

"A  child,  I  believe,"  replied  Blanche,  laughing.  "Papa 
tells  me  so." 

"  Yet  you  have  notions;  what  are  they  ?"  The  question  was 
put  with  such  an  air  of  command,  that  Blanche,  for  a  moment, 
felt  herself  bound  to  obey  it ;  but  it  was  only  for  a  moment, 
and  she  answered  with  reserve,  that  it  was  hard  to  exj)lain 
them  :  perhaps  when  they  had  been  together  longer,  it  would 
be  less  difficult. 

"  But  I  like  notions ;  I  like  theories,"  persisted  Maude ;  her 
hirge  grey  eyes  lighted  up  with  what  might  almost  have  been 
termed  a  fierce  eagerness.  "  I  must  know,"  she  added,  laying 
her  hand  upon  Blanche's  wrist. 

Blanche  drew  back.  A  very  slight  accent  of  hauteur  miglit 
have  been  perceptible  in  the  tone  in  which  she  said,  "  Another 
time ;  not  now." 

Maude's  brow  was  clouded ;  she  rose  from  the  piano,  threw 
hei-self  into  a  chair,  took  a  book  from  the  table,  and  tossed  it 
down  with  an  air  of  contempt ;  and,  after  some  time,  began 
walking  about  the  room. 

lilanche  was  annoyed  witli  herself  for  being  annoyed.  She 
scarcely  knew  why  she  had  been ;  and  she  sat  at  her  drawing- 
Uible,  busied  ,in  -discovering  the  state  of  her  own  mind,  and 
wishing  that  Maude  would  speak  again  and  give  her  the  oppor- 
tunity of  making  something  like  an  apology. 

The  silence  was  long  and  awkward,  and  disturbed  at  length 
by  the  dull,  slow,  heavy  sound  of  crutclKs. 

"  Sir  Hugh  is  drest,  I  suppose,"  said  Blanche,  glad  to  find 
Kfmething  to  say. 


00  THE      E  A  K  L     S      DAUGHTER. 

^faude  did  not  reply. 

The  sound  grew  louder,  and  the  complaining  voice  of  Sr 
nu<Th  was  heard,  telling  Pearson,  as  usual,  that  he  was  a  despe 
rate  idiot. 

Maude  laughed  sarcastically  at  the  mild,  deprecatory  intona- 
tion which  followed.  She  took  up  her  book  and  disappeared 
through  the  window,  whilst  Blanche  went  to  the  door. 

"  Ah  !  my  dear  Blanche!  I  thought  I  should  find  you  here ; 
mv  first  walk,  you  see.  I  was  determined  to  pay  my  respects 
to' you.  A  delightful  room  this  ! — infinitely  improved  ! — What 
in  the  name  of  wonder  are  you  doing,  Pearson  ?  Why  don't 
vou  keep  behind  me? — Infinitely  improved,  my  dear.  That 
window  I  remember  quite  well.  It  was  a  plan  of  my  own  ;  I 
saw  how  things  ought  to  be  long  ago ;  but  jour  father — a  very 
first-rate  man  is  the  earl ;  don't  imagine  that  I  have  not  the 
highest  appreciation  of  his  talents.     Excuse  me,  will  you  ?  may 

1  be  allowed  to  rest  ?"  And  Sir  Ilugh  was  assisted  into  an 
arm-chair ;  and,  to  the  consternation  of  Blanche,  wheeled  to  a 
comfortable  convenient  position,  which  he  evidently  intended 
should,  at  least  for  the  present,  be  a  permanent  one.  "  I  was 
telling  you,"  began  Sir  Uugh  again ;  but  he  was  interrupted 
by  an  exclamation — 

"  Sir  Hugh  1  this  really  is  too  bad  !  It  is  far  too  great  an 
exertion  for  him,  Blanche  ;  but  he  would  come ;  he  was  so 
charmed  with  your  half-hour's  conversation  yesterday.  It  won't 
do  though. — Pearson,  you  must  help  your  master  back  to  the 
study." 

"  Lady  Charlton  !  Frances,  my  dear ! — I  insist ;  you  must  not 
interfere.     I  was  telling  you,  my  dear  Blanche, — " 

Lady  Charlton  broke  in  again.  "  My  dear  Sir  Hugh  ; — in- 
deed, I  must  have  my  own  way.  Hark  !  really  there  are  visit- 
ors ;  and  the  earl — that  is  his  footstep,  I  am  certain.  I  as- 
sure you,  Sir  Hugh,  you  make  me  quite  anxious.  It  is  too 
much,  a  great  deal  too  much  for  you,"  she  added,  her  tone  be- 
coming gradually  but  perceptibly  irritable ;  and  taking  the 
crutcli  from  Peai-son's  hand  she  put  it  near  her  husband. 

''  Pshaw  !  Lady  Charlton,"  and  with  an  impatient  jerk,  the 
crutch  was  thrown  to  the  ground,  to  the  imminent  peril  of 
Peai-son's  toes.     "  My  dear  Blanche,  I  was  telling  you — " 

The  sparkle  of  Lady  Charlton's  eye  alone  told  what  was 
passing  in  her  thoughts.  When  the  door  immediately  after- 
wards opened,  and  the  earl  introduced  Mr.  and  Miss  Wentworth, 
her  manner  was  that  of  the  most  bland  good  humour. 


THE    earl's    daughter.  91 

"  So  distressed,  I  am  !  so  exceedingly  distressed !"  begau  Sii 
Iluo-h,  attempting  to  rise  as  Eleanor  came  up  to  him. 

Lady  Charlton  stood  close  beside  him.  "  Poor  Sir  Hugh  ! 
He  has  been  suftering  fearfully :  he  is  not  fit  to  be  here ;  but 
his  spirits  carry  him  beyond  his  strength.  Your  brother  is  an 
old  acquaintance,  Miss  Wentworth.  We  met  last  year  at  Flo- 
rence."       ^ 

Mr.  Wentworth  was  upon  the  point  of  holding  out  his  hand 
to  receive  a  cordial  greeting ;  but  the  extreme  civihty  of  Lady 
Charfton's  reception  made  him  exchange  the  proposed  shake  of 
the  hand  fcr  a  bow,  and  a  hope  that  Lady  Charlton  had  been 
w^ell  since  he  last  had  the  honour  of  seeing  her. 

"  Quite  well,  thank  you.  You  were  in  Italy,  I  believe,  long 
after  us." 

"  Only  a  few  weeks ;  Florence  became  very  dull." 

"  Indeed !  I  was  not  aw^are  of  it.  We  saw  little  general 
society.  Rumoui-s  reached  us  of  gaieties,  but  as  you  know," 
appealing  to  the  earl,  "  general  society  is  not  very  inviting 
abroad." 

Lord  Rutherford  carelessly  assented. 

"  We  had  a  splendid  summer  at  Florence,  Mr.  Wentworth," 
said  Sir  Uugh ;  "  I  don't  know  tvhether  you  ever  recollect  such 

another.     I  don't,  except  the  year .     Lord  Rutherford  can 

tell  the  date,  I  dare  say ;  we  were  travellers  together,  taking  a 
scientific  tour  on  the  Rhine.  If  you  remember,"  he  continued, 
addressing  the  earl,  "  you  were  developing  your  sketching  powers, 
and  I  flatter  myself  you  made  considerable  progress,  by  the  help 
of  a  few  occasional  hints  ;  the  few  hints,  Mr.  Wentworth,  which 
a  man  engrossed  in  a  great  object  could  afford  to  give.  Geology 
was  my  study ;  I  gave  up  everything  for  it." 

"  Twenty  years  ago,"  said  the  earl  coolly.  "  Blanche,  my 
love,  how  has  your  drawing  advanced  this  morning  ?" 

Blanche  brought  it  forward  to  be  criticised. 

Mr.  Wentworth  had  recovered  from  the  slight  shock  of  Lady 
Cliarlton's  reception,  and  now,  with  a  very  quiet  and  rather  dig- 
nified air,  joined  in  the  remarks  which  the  engraving  and  the 
copy  called  forth.  Sir  Uugh  looked  on  from  a  distance,  stretch- 
inghis  head,  and  constantly  endeavouring  to  interpose  observa- 
tions of  his  own,  which  were  as  constantly  taken  up  by  Lady 
Charlton,  and  repeated  in  a  new  form,  and,  to  judge  from  Mr. 
Wentworth's  manner,  an  interesting  one,  for  his  marked  atten- 
tion was  given  to  whatever  she  uttered  ;  and,  as  Lord  Ruther- 
ford was  about  to  replace  the  drawing  in  its  former  position,  he 


92  THE      EARLS      DAUGHTER. 

bpjrjred  permission  to  bring  it  nearer  for  her  inspection  and  Sir 
llujh's. 

Blanche  liked  In'in  better  as  she  watclied  what  was  passing  ; 
she  had  not  thouglit  before  that  he  could  be  so  easy  and  agreea- 
ble, and  yet  so  respectful. 

"  A  very  pleasant  thing  it  is  to  meet  a  travelled  friend  again, 
Mr.  "Wentworth,"  said  Sir  Hugh,  quite  excited  by  the  patience 
with  which  a  disquisition  upon  the  comparative  merits  of  two 
of  the  early  Italian  masters  had  been  listened  to ;  "  quite  a  grati- 
fication, I  assure  you.  Lady  Charlton  and  myself  shall  have 
great  pleasure  in  renewing  past  recollections  ;  and  my  daughters 
—Maude  !  where  is  Maude  ?  My  dear  Blanche,  surely  she  has 
been  with  you  this  morning  ?" 

*'  Maude  is  walking  on  the  terrace,"  said  Lady  Charlton 
quickly,  "  and  Adelaide  is  rambling  over  the  grounds,  I  sup- 
pose ;  she  went  out  directly  after  breaktiist." 

Blanche  did  not  think  it  well  to  throw  more  light  than  was 
necessary  upon  the  movements  of  either.  There  was  a  certain 
intonation  in  her  aunt's  voice  which  she  was  just  beginning  to 
interpret. 

"  Ah,  well,  you  will  meet  at  luncheon  ;  but  I  forgot — really 
— Lord  Rutherford — Lady  Blanche,  I  ought  to  apologize." 
Lady  Charlton  bit  her  lip,  and  gave  an  apparency  involuntary 
push  to  Sir  Hugh's  chair,  which  miide  him  stop  short,  with  an 
exclamation  of  pain. 

Lord  Kutherford  was  talking  to  Eleanor  at  the  window,  and 
did  not  hear  what  was  said,  and  the  burden  of  hospitality  fell 
upon  Blanche.  Gracefully  but  timidly  she  repeated  the  request 
that  Mr.  Wentworth  would  remain,  and  the  invitation  was  soon 
seconded  by  the  earl,  with  that  perfect  though  distant  politeness 
which  leaves  no  room  for  complaint.  Mr.  Wentworth  was 
therefore  established  on  a  comn-ratively  familiar  f(.x)ting ;  and 
Blanche,  feeling  herself  no  longer  bound  to  entertam  him,  left 
whe  room  with  Eleanor. 


CHAPTER  XVL 

LiPORTAXT  consequences,  it  is  well  known,  often  follow  from 
yery  shght  beginnings.  Mr.  Wentworth's  first  introduction  at 
Rutherford  Castle  was  marked  by  no  circumstances  but  those  in- 


THE      EARLS      DAUGHTER.  93 

cidontal  to  morning  visits ;  yet  it  gave  the  tone  tc  the  inter- 
course whicli  was  to  follow. 

The  earl's  reserve  and  pride  would  have  induced  him  to  hesi- 
tate long  before  he  allowed  any  persons  in  the  neighbourhood, 
except  ills  own  peculiar  friends,  to  be  on  such  terms  as  to  call 
early,  and  lounge  away  an  hour  and  "emain  to  luncheon,  and 
perhaps  join^he  riding  and  walking  parties  in  the  afternoon ; 
but  what  had  been  done  once  came  rather  naturally  a  second 
time,  and  certainly  Lord  Rutherford  had  no  cause  to  suppose 
that  ^h.  Wentworth's  presence  or  absence  had  the  slightest 
effect  upon  the  only  individual  with  whom  he  chose  to  concern 
himself.  Even  as  Eleanor's  brother,  Blanche  could  only  partially 
like  Mr.  Wentworth.  His  talents,  his  versatility  of  manner  and 
ease  of  conversation,  and  the  right  principle  and  good  sense 
which  he  always  put  forth  when  conversing  with  her.  ould  not 
blind  her  to  his  faults ;  and  Blanche  could  only  feel  interest 
where  she  felt  respect.  It  was  perfectly  indifferent  to  herself 
whether  Mr.  "Wentworth  formed  one  of  the  circle  or  not ;  but 
childlike  though  she  was,  and  simple  in  many  of  her  ideas, 
Blanche  could  not  fail  to  perceive  that  it  was  not  so  to  others. 
Yet,  even  when  the  fact  was  acknowledged,  Blanche  scarcely 
thought  of  it.  She  noticed  that  Adelaide  Charlton  liked  to 
talk  and  laugh  with  Mr.  Wentworth  ;  and  she  observed  that  for 
some  reason  or  other  Lady  Charlton  frowned  and  looked  vexed  ; 
and  she  discovered  that  Mr.  Wentworth  contrived  to  ingratiate 
himself  with  Sir  Hugh,  and  was  rather  disliked  by  Maude.  But 
the  little  incidents,  which  would  have  aflbrded  matter  for  sar- 
casm and  ridicule  to  a  more  experienced  eye,  passed  before  her 
as  the  scenes  of  a  theatre  before  a  preoccupied,  abstracted  spec- 
tator. For  Blanche  lived  in  a  world  of  her  own  ;  or  rather  she 
lived  in  the  world  of  her  friends  and  relations,  seeing  the  same 
Bights,  hearing  the  same  sounds,  and  performing  the  same  actions ; 
yet  often  deriving  impressions  totally  contrary  to  theirs,  from  all 
that  was  passing  around. 

So  probably  it  must  often  be  when  religion  becomes  the  pre- 
dominant feeling  of  the  heart  very  early  in  life  :  it  is  all-power- 
ful then,  for  it  has  no  master  passion  to  oppose  it.  Adopted 
later  in  life,  it  must  struggle  with  past  evil  recollections,  and  be 
frequently  crushed  and  overborne  by  what  we  falsely  term  the 
realities  of  the  world.  We  try  to  think  that  earth  is  nothing, 
that  heaven  is  all ;  but  when  we  have  toiled  for  years  in  the 
pursuit  of  wealth,  or  pleasure,  or  fame,  how  shall  we  in  a 
moment  persuade  ourselves,  that  they  are  worthless  ?     Like  the 


94  THE    earl's    daughter. 

6sherm;ui  in  the  eastern  tale,  we  have  voluntarily  opened  the 
casket  iu  wliich  the  mighty  spirit  of  delusion  was  encased, 
and  that  which  seemed  at  first  but  a  faint  mist  of  evil  has 
gathered  itself  up  into  a  giant  form,  and  made  itself  our  lord  ; 
and,  when  we  would  fain  command  it  back  to  its  original  no- 
thingness, we  find  that  our  will  is  powerless  to  enforce  obedience. 
That  Blanche  retained  her  earnestness  and  sincerity  of  purpose 
was  not  owing  to  any  particularly  advantageous  circumstances ; 
life  at  Rutherford  Castle  was,  in  its  exterior,  what  life  is  in  almost 
all  jilaces  where  there  is  no  one  great  business  or  occupation  to 
mould  it  into  some  definite  form :  there  were  rather  late  break- 
fasts, mornings  seemingly  frittered  away  in  light  reading,  music, 
letter-writing,  and  not  very  profitable  conversation ;  afternoons 
devoted  to  some  drive  or  ride;  seven  o'clock  dinners  and  idle, 
talking,  musical  evenings.  What  was  the  purport  of  all  that 
was  said  or  done  no  one  seemed  to  inquire.  Lord  Rutherford, 
indeed,  spent  much  of  his  time  in  his  study,  and  busied  himself 
in  managing  his  estates.  His  object  was  a  definite  one ;  yet 
he  was  the  only  person,  except  Blanche,  who  appeared  dissatis- 
fied with  it.  After  the  first  excitement  of  his  sister-in-law's 
arrival  was  over  he  seemed  inclined  to  sink  back  into  the 
reserved  and  even  contemptuous  mood,  which  had  occasionally 
shown  itself  before  when  he  was  alone  with  Blanche.  Lady 
Charlton's  vivacity  indeed  often  roused  him,  and  brought  out 
flashes  of  brilliant  wit  and  quick  observation  ;  but  he  soon 
relapsed  again  into  silence, — in  Sir  Hugh's  presence  especially  ; 
though,  fortunately  for  his  temper  and  his  peace,  the  gout 
lingered  much  longer  than  was  expected,  and  kept  Sir  Hugh 
in  a  great  measure  a  prisoner  to  his  room.  When  he  was 
absent  the  earl  would  occasionally  read  aloud,  or  enter  into  con- 
versations with  Lady  Charlton,  which,  as  they  seemed  to  possess 
a  power  to  engage  his  attention  and  give  him  pleasure,  were 
eagerly  listened  to  by  Blanche. 

They  were  certainly  very  agreeable,  full  of  anecdote  anu 
niformation.  Blanche's  opinion  of  her  aunt's  talents  and  power 
of  mind,  and  even  of  her  principles,  increased  daily.  For  Lady 
Charlton  never  gave  way  to  the  ear-l's  impHed  doubts  of  good- 
ness, or  clever  sar-casm  upon  things  and  people  whom  Blanche 
had  learned  to  reverence.  She  spoke  openly,  and  in  a  measure 
ear-nestly  upon  all  serious  topics  :  blamed  what  was  wrong,  and 
appr-ovcd  of  what  was  right,  and  when  left  alone  with  Blanche 
synipatliized  with  any  indication  of  her  deeper  feelings,  more 
t>articularly  when  they  were  in  any  way  connected  with  her 


THE      earl's      D  a  U  G  H  T  E  K  .  Oo 

raotlier.  Blanche  was  beginning  to  lean  upon  and  trust  her 
at  times  even  to  think  that  she  might  partly  sup]jly  Mi-s. 
Iloward's  place  as  a  guide  in  her  daily  actions.  They  were 
very  ditfereiit,  different  in  a  way  which  Blanche  felt  better  than 
she  could  describe ;  but  their  ideas  seemed  the  same.  Ladv 
Charlton  was  more  cheerful,  more  fidl  of  life  and  hope ;  she 
had  more  interest  in  passing  events  than  Mrs.  Howard  ;  but 
they  liked  the  same  people,  approved  of  the  same  books,  pro- 
fessed the  same  motives.  Blanche  could  not  have  spoken  to 
her  ^nt  upon  anything  which  immediately  involved  her  own 
most  sacred  thoughts,  for  such  confidence  can  scarcely  be  given 
except  to  one  person,  and  Lady  Charlton  was  too  recent  a 
friend,  and  too  lively  and  light-hearted,  to  offer  occasiuns  for 
alluding  to  thern  ;  but  in  all  minor  points  she  seemed  a  safe 
counsellor,  and  one  whom  the  earl  was  particularly  pleased  that 
Blanche  should  apply  to. 

"  I  wish  you  knew  her,"  wrote  Blanche  to  Mrs.  Iloward,  in 
one  of  the  weekly  letters,  which  no  occupation  was  ever  allowed 
to  stop.  "  I  should  feel  more  certain  then  of  my  own  opinion 
about  her.  Perhaps  you  will  think  it  is  not  right  to  sit  in  judg- 
ment upon  one  who  is  so  much  my  superior  in  age,  and  so 
nearly  related  to  me  ;  but  I  do  not  know  how  to  help  it.  I 
think  you  can  scarcely  imagine  how  entirely  I  am  forced  to  form 
my  own  decisions,  and  act  upon  my  ONvn  wilL  The  last  few 
months,  since  we  parted,  have  worked  a  marvellous  change. 
I  am  mistress  of  the  castle,  and  forced  to  order  and  arrange,  and 
treated  with  a  deference  which  at  first  completelv  puzzled  me. 
Papa  seems  to  delight  that  it  should  be  so.  He  will  never 
allow  the  least  opposition  ;  he  calls  me  queen  in  jest,  and  when 
I  beg  him  to  tell  me  what  he  wishes  for  himself,  a  cloud  comes 
over  him,  and  he  insists  that  he  has  no  will  but  mine  :  and  yet 
to  others  he  is  so  different.  This  is  not  what  ought  to  be,  is  it  ? 
It  frightens  me :  I  long  for  some  one  to  remind  me  of  my 
duties  ;  to  scold  me,  and  tell  me  when  I  do  wrong — which 
indeed  is  every  hour  in  the  day.  I  wish  my  aunt  would  do  it 
She  has  such  very  high  principles,  such  good  notions  about 
everything.  I»am'  sure  she  must  perpetually  see  that  I  am  nut 
acting  i-ightly,  but  she  never  hints  at  its  being  possible.  I  do 
make  her  give  me  advice  in  common  things,  receiving  visitors, 
•urantiing  for  dinner-parties,  and  so  on  ;  but  it  is  all  done 
laughinglv,  with  a  half  apology,  as  if  she  had  no  reason  to 
(•u]i](ose  I  did  not  know  all  that  she  does.  "What  I  most  wish 
just  iiDW  is  to  have  some  plan  for  the  arrangement  of  my  time. 


C)Q  T  H  H       EARLS      D  A  U  G  H  T  E  R  . 

I  h'.ivo  tliou<i-lit  a  good  deal  about  it  lately  ;  for  the  kind  of  life 
I  lead  at  j)resent  is  exceedingly  unsatisfactory,  and  yet  I  cannot 
tell  how  to  alter  it.  If  we  have  visitors,  I  must  attend  to  thera; 
and  really  that  takes  up  more  time  than  any  one  not  on  the  spot 
would  imagine.  My  aunt  constantly  says  that  she  will  not 
interrupt  me,  if  she  thinks  I  have  anything  to  do  ;  but  then  she 
begins  talking,  and  I  am  bound  in  courtesy  to  listen  ;  aud 
very  wiliiiigly,  I  nuist  own,  for  she  is  the  most  agreeable  person 
I  ever  met  with.  Anecdotes  she  has  to  bring  forward  on  every 
occasion,  and  they  are  never  wearying,  they  are  told  so  quickly, 
and  with  such  spirit.  She  quite  understands  giving  one 
resting-] ilaces,  and  entering  into  anything  one  says  in  reply, 
Ri'ally  the  hours  pass  by,  and  I  have  not  the  least  idea  that 
they  are  gone.  Yet  they  are  not  satisfactory  to  look  back  upon. 
Then,  if  my  aunt  is  not  with  me,  Adelaide  and  Maude  are ; 
and  Adelaide  is  like  a  butterfly,  flying  from  one  pursuit  to 
another,  and  calling  upon  me  to  follow  her,  and  Maude — I  meant 
to  have  written  a  great  deal  about  her,  but  I  must  not  to-day : 
if  I  once  begin  I  shall  certainly  not  leave  oflf  in  time.  She 
interests  me  though,  that  I  must  say;  and  frightens  me  too. 
AVe  had  a  little  quarrel  the  other  day,  a  very  tiny  one,  but  still 
sufticieiit  to  make  me  feel  what  she  might  be  if  she  were 
offended.  I  am  afraid  1  am  very  proud  :  she  rather  ordered  me, 
and  my  spirit  rebelled,  and  I  showed  that  I  was  annoyed.  I 
thought  perhaps  she  would  have  been  angry  with  me  a  lonor 
time ;  but  instead  of  that  she  came  up  to  me  afterwards,  the 
iirst  moment  we  were  alone,  and  gave  me  a  kiss,  so  kind  ! 
it  made  me  ten  times  more  vexed  with  myself  tlian  I  was 
before.  Yet  the  next  moment  she  was  just  like  her  old  self,  and 
I  do  not  feel  I  have  advanced  in  the  least  with  her.  All 
this  is  sadly  wandering  from  my  first  subject,  but  when  I  write 
to  you  I  always  do  wander  :  so  many  things  come  to  my  mind 
which  I  long  to  say.  You  will  understand  though  that  I  lead 
a  very  unsettled,  idle  life,  and  that  Eleanor  leads  a  very  useful, 
busy  one  ;  and  when  we  meet  to  compare  notes  I  become 
discontented  with  myself,  and  long  to  do  better,  but  do  not 
know  how  to  set  about  it.  My  aunt  Said  she  would  go  with  me 
to  visit  the  poor  people,  and  I  know  she  would,  if  she  could  find 
a  leisure  day  ;  but  there  is  always  some  engagement.  Poor 
Susannah  has  been  very  much  neglected  in  consequence.  Elea- 
nor has  promised  to  go  when  she  can,  but  Dr.  Wentworth 
trusted  her  particularly  to  me.  She  sent  me  a  message  the 
jthor  day,  asking  to  see  me.     You  see  I  tell  you  all  my\ults, 


THE      earl's      daughter.  97 

as  I  used  to  do  in  the  happy  old  times  :  sometimes — is  it 
wrong  to  say  so  ? — I  fancy  they  were  happier  than  these.  At 
any  rate,  I  know  that  1  never  went  to  bed  then  with  the  same 
burden  of  unfulfilied  duties  upon  my  conscience.  Some  rules 
howevei*!  can  ke'^p,  and  some  tliinys  I  hope  I  do  not  forget.  I 
can  never  be  sufficiently  thankful  that  I  was  confirmed 
when  I  was..>*  Pr^^paration  would  have  been  so  much  more  diffi- 
cult here,  and  I  think  I  might  have  gone  on  in  an  unsettled 
way,  ^ncying  thr.t  confirmation  would  be  a  new  starting-point, 
and  work  some  great  change  in  itself.  Whereas,  now  I  feel 
that  all  has  been  done  for  me  which  I  could  expect,  and  that  if 
I  do  not  advance  steadily,  I  must  go  back  without  any  prospect 
of  being  roused  and  warned  again.  Still  I  am  uncomfortable 
and  anxious.  The  very  fact  of  bringing  my  present  mode  of 
life  into  a  definite  form,  by  writing  about  it,  makes  it  assume  a 
more  serious  aspect.  I  am  sure  it  must  be  very  faulty  in  some 
way ;  and  what  will  it  be  when  I  go  to  Loudon  ?" 


Cn.VTTER  xvir. 

The  answer  to  this  letter  brought  a  said  disappointrae..t  to 
J>lanche.  The  continued  illness  of  ^Irs.  Iloward's  niece  made 
her  anticipate  the  probability  of  going  abroad,  and  would  at 
any  rate  interfere  with  the  visit  to  Rutherford,  which  had  so 
long  been  promised.  Blanche  had  not  realized  before  how 
much  she  had  j'ved  upon  the  thought  of  this  visit, — how 
eritirely  she  had  looked  forward  to  it  as  the  means  of  making 
l\Irs.  Howard  acquainted  with  the  fears  and  uncertainties  which 
she  had  never  yet  found  courage  to  mention  openly.  A  week 
spent  together  w^uld  have  sufficed  to  show  the  loneliness  of 
mind, — the  absence  of  sympathy, — the  uncongeniality  between 
herself  and  her  father  upon  the  one  most  important  point, 
wliich  caused  her  uaily  grief.  There  would  have  been  no  need 
v>f  words ;  Mrs.  Howard  would  have  ft-lt  and  understood  all. 
Now  that  sinking,  decaving  isolation  of  heart  must  still  remain, 
unless  she  could  exjilain.  But  what  was  there  to  explain? 
What  had  slie  to  say  ? — the  loved,  petted,  idolized  daughter  of 
a  man  in  whom  the  world  agreed  to  see  no  fault  except  jiride, 
— why  was  she  noi  happy  ? 

''  Read  it,  Eleanor,"  she  said,  putting  the  letter  into  her 
friend's  hand,  as  they  met  that  same  afternoon  at  the  parsonage, 


98  THE    Karl's    daughter. 

whilst  toars,  in  spite  of  herself,  rose  to  her  eyes.    "  There  is  not 
jv  sli;i(li)w  of  hope  for  months, — probably  not  before  next  year.*' 

Eleanor  glanced  at  the  full  sheet.     "Am  I  to  read  it  all?" 

"  If  you  will ;  it  is  in  answer  to  mine.  But  I  have  scarcely 
thouLjht  of  the  advice  in  it  yet." 

Eleanor  took  the  letter,  and  Blanche  ^Yalked  up  and  down 
the  gravel  path,  and  very  soon  afterwards  Mrs.  Wentworth 
joined  her.  Blanche  could  not  conceal  that  she  was  out  of 
sj)irits,  and  there  was  real  kindness  in  the  tone  in  which  Mrs. 
Wentworth  addressed  her,  with  a  regret  for  the  unpleasant 
news  which  she  had  only  just  heard  Poor  Blanche  was 
always  very  alive  to  sympathy.  The  tears,  which  had  only 
glistened  before,  fell  fast,  and  Mrs.  Wentworth  was  touched  by 
her  distress ;  and  opening  the  French  window  of  a  small  room, 
which  fronted  the  flower-garden,  begged  her  to  go  in,  and  seat 
herself,  and  be  alone  if  she  liked  it.  "It  was  "her  own  little 
room,"  she  said ;  "  and  no  one  would  come  near  to  disturb 
her." 

Blanche  was  only  too  willing  to  hide  herself  from  observa- 
tion. She  expected  Mrs.  Wentworth  to  follow  her ;  but  she 
did  not ;  and  Blanche  leant  back  on  the  sofa,  and  for  a  time 
indulged  her  own  sad,  disappointed  fancies.  When  she  at  last 
raised  her  eyes,  it  was  to  rest  them  upon  an  object  which  at 
once  withdrew  her  thoughts  from  the  present  trial,  and  sent 
them  far  back  into  the  past.  On  one  side  of  the  firejjlace  hung 
a  small  painting,  the  subject  of  which  she  recognised  in  an 
instant.  It  was  her  mother's  likeness ;  but  how  different  from 
the  subdued,  sorrow-stricken  countenance  which  dwelt  in  her 
memory  as  the  only  true  resemblance  of  the  lovely  Countess 
Ptutherford.  The  picture  before  her  represented  a  young  lady, 
who  ^ould  scarcely,  so  it  seemed,  have  passed  the  age  of  twenty, 
standing  on  the  steps  of  the  castle,  dressed  in  a  riding-habit, 
and  caressing  a  splendid  horse,  which  she  was  evidently  pre- 
pared to  mount.  The  face  was  bright,  even  mirthfnl  ;  the  eyes 
sparkling  with  expectation  ;  the  mouth  joyous  in  its  expression 
of  hai)piness.  There  was  no  striving  for  effect  in  the  picture  ; 
nothing  but  the  simple  representation  of  what  must  actually 
have  been  witnessed.  Blanche  felt,  as  she  looked  upon  it,  that 
the  artist  who  could  so  have  portrayed  her  mother  must  have 
drawn  her  as  she  actually  stood,  without  forethought  or  design. 
Five  years  afterwards,  that  fair  young  creature  had  become  tlie 
pale,  serious,  care-worn  woman,  whose  beauty  was  oversha- 
dowed by  a  fixed,   it  might  almost  have  been  called,  a  stern 


THE    earl's    daughter.  9£ 

nielanclu>ly ;  and  ■whose  fascination  was  the  influence  of  tliat 
purity  of  mind  which  grief  has  prepared  for  heaven. 

The  picture,  and  the  thoughts  that  it  called  forth,  struck  a 
chord  in  the  mind  of  Lady  Blanche,  which  at  that  moment  was 
peculiarly  though  painfully  sensitive.  If  her  mother  had  been 
spared,  not  even  Mrs.  lloward's  friendship  would  have  been 
needed.  Aii^  again  an  undiifined  doubt,  followed  by  a  long- 
in"-  for  a  truer  insight  into  that  mother's  history,  arose  within 
her.  Her  attention  was  so  engrossed,  that  Mrs.  VVentvvortli 
knockecl  at  the  door  without  being  answered,  and  Blanche 
started  when  she  came  in,  as  if  the  privacy  of  her  own  apart- 
ment had  been  intruded  upon.  The  attitude  in  which  she  was 
standing,  leaning  upon  the  mantelpiece  and  gazing  upon  the 
picture,  told  at  once  the  subject  of  her  thoughts. 

"•  I  did  not  know  you  had  it,"  she  said  in  a  tone  of  gentle 
reproach,  as  Mrs.  Went  worth  came  up  to  her.  Mrs.  Wentworth 
appeared  at  a  loss  for  a  reply.  "  And  it  must  be  like  her," 
continued  Blanche,  still  with  the  same  manner,  as  if  she  was 
vexed  at  having  long  been  deprived  of  a  great  pleasure. 

"  It  was  like  her  once, — for  a  short  time,"  said  Mrs.  Went- 
worth, her  voice  sinking  at  the  last  words,  as  it  so  often  did 
when  referring  to  persons  and  events  connected  with  other 
days. 

"  I  feel  it  must  have  been  like,"  repeated  Blanche ;  ''  more 
like  than  the.bust  at  the  castle ;  more  like  than  this,"  and  she 
luifastened  her  brooch. 

"  It  is  not  the  face  by  which  she  was  most  known,"  said  Mrs. 
Wentworth,  rather  inditferently.  "  I  am  sorry  you  have  seen 
it ;  it  will  only  disturb  your  ideas." 

"  No,  no !"  exclaimed  Blanche.  "  I  should  be  so  glad  if  I 
could  know  her  as  she  was  always  ;  as  a  child, — as  a  woman, 
— ;is  what  I  am  now,"  she  added,  with  a  faint  smile. 

A  slight  contraction  was  visible  in  Mrs.  Wentworth's  fore- 
liead,  the  effect,  perhaps,  of  some  sudden  pain ;  but  she 
answered  in  her  usual,  undisturbed  manner; — "There  is  no 
picture  of  Lady  Rutherford  as  she  was  at  your  age,  my  dear 
Lady  Blanche.    Tliis  was  taken  three  weeks  after  her  marriage." 

"  And  for  you  ? — was  it  her  gift  to  you  ?"  inquired  Blanche, 
with  eagerness. 

"No,  not  her  gift.  It  was — "  Mrs.  Wentworth  paused, 
coughed,  and  then  added  quickly,  "  it  was"  the  earl's  once." 

"  And  lie  parted  with  it  ?"  exclaimed  Blanche.  "  Oh,  Mrs. 
Weiitw(jrtli !  even  to  vou  !" 


100  THE      EARLS     DAUGIITEK. 

"I  l(>\i'd  luT,"  was  the  reply,  uttered  sharjily  and  bitterly; 
jiiid  IMaiK'Iie  in  an  instant  reproached  herseU'  fur  her  words. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  I  know  you  did.  I  know  you  were  her  great 
friend.  Forgive  me:  you  had  of  course  a  chiim.  But  is  there 
DO  coiiy, — no  other  picture  Hke  it,  taken  at  that  time  ? 
Three  weeks  after  her  marriage !  How  happy  she  looks  ! — my 
own  sweet  mother !"  and  Blanche  drew  near  with  the  impulse 
to  ])ress  her  lips  to  the  cold,  lifeless  figure.  She  checked  her- 
self however.  Mrs.  VVentworth's  calmness  seemed  a  reproof 
for  indulging  anything  like  excited  feeling.  "  Perhaps,"  slie 
said,  turning  to  Mrs.  Wentworth,  with  a  smile  of  singular 
attraction,  so  full  it  was  of  subdued  eagerness,  and  softness,  and 
hope, — "jierhapi,  some  day,  if  I  might  be  permitted,  I  would 
ask  to  have  it  copied.  It  would  be  a  great  treasure.  You  will 
ui:derstand,"  she  added  ;  and  in  her  earnestness  she  took  Mrs. 
"W'entworth's  hanJ,  as  if  to  entreat  by  action  as  well  as  by 
word. 

To  her  surprise,  Mrs.  Wentworth  hesitated.  "  She  would, 
if  it  were  possible  ; — anything  which  could  be  done  should  be, 
Lady  Blanche  might  be  certain  of  that.  Artists  were  very 
rarely  in  the  neighbourhood  ;  but  it  might  be  possible,  just 
possible." 

Blanche  drew  back  her  hand, — she  began  her  reply  proudly, 
and  it  was  an  apology  ;  she  had  not  known  that  she  was  asking 
such  a  favour  : — then  conscience  reproached  her  for  pride  shown 
to  her  mother's  early  friend,  and  she  tried  to  alter  her  manner. 
Mi-s.  Wentworth  stood  passively  by  her,  listening  politely.  An 
unpleasant  silence  followed  what  Blanche  said, — a  stiffness  and 
restraint  on  both  sides  ;  but  it  was  broken  in  upon  by  Mrs. 
Wentworth. 

"The  original  is  so  invaluable  tome,"  she  began. 

Blanche  interrupted  her  : — "  You  do  not  think  I  could  wish 
for  that  ?     No,  I  assure  you,  not  for  a  moment." 

"There  are  associations  connected  with  it,"  pursued  Mrs. 
Wentworth,  quietly  :  "  no  copy  would  possess  them.  I  was 
pi'esent  when  the  picture  was  taken.  I  watched  its  progress 
from  the  commencement.  The  first  sketch  was  made  on  the 
countess's  birthday, — she  was  just  twenty.  It  was  done  by  an 
amateur,  a  friend  of  Lord  Rutherford's,  who  was  staying  at  the 
castle.  The  countess  had  no  idea  of  his  intention  •  but  I  waa 
aware  of  it,  and  assisted  him.  I  kept  her,  that  is,  in  convei^ 
eation." 

"And  it  was  my  father's  ?"  said  Blanche,  musingly. 


THE    earl's    daughter.  101 

''  Yes  :"  and  again  Mrs.  Wentworth's  manner  grew  very  con- 
strained ;  and,  after  a  sliort  pause,  she  said,  awkwardly,  "  1 
do  not  think  the  earl  would  like  to  see  it  ;  it  might  remind 
him — ^"  Blanche  waited  some  moments  for  the  continuation  of 
the  sentence  ;  when  it  came,  it  was  so  hurried  that  she  could 
scarcely  comprehend  it  : — "  It  might  remind  him,"  repeated 
Mrs.  Wentwofth,  "  that  is,  it  would  certainly  bring  to  his  recol- 
lection : — I  think  it  might  annoy  him  to  be  spoken  to  about  it," 
were  Jjie  concluding  words. 

Annoy  !  what  a  strange,  cold  expression  !  But  Mrs.  "VYent- 
worth  was  incomprehensible  ;  and  so  ditierent  on  this  day  to 
what  she  generally  was,  so  frightened  apparently  out  of  her 
usual  self-possession !  Blanche  felt  quite  bewildered.  She 
turned  from  the  picture,  and  saying  that  she  was  now  quit^ 
rested,  and  would  rejoin  Eleanor,  was  preparing  to  go,  when 
Mrs.  Wentworth  detained  her. 

"  It  is  not  pleasant  to  me  to  part  in  this  way,"  she  said  more 
freely  ;  "  to  appear  unkind,  as  I  must  do.  Might  I  hope  that 
you  would  excuse  it ;  that  you  would  make  allowance  for  painful 
recollections  ?  I  think  you  will,"  she  added,  looking  kindly  at 
Blanche  ;  "  for  your  mother's  sake  I  think  you  will  excuse  any 
unintentional  awkwardness  in  one  who  loved  her  very  dearly." 

Blanche's  displeasure  vanished  in  an  instant.  "  My  mother's 
friend  must  always  be  privileged,"  she  said,  putting  her  hand 
into  that  of  Mrs.  Wentworth  ;  "  even  if  there  were  anything  to 
excuse ;  but,  indeed, — of  course,  I  can  understand."  The 
mutual  pressure  of  the  hand  was  affectionate  ;  but  Blanche  was 
relieved  when  she  stepped  into  the  open  air  :  and  she  had  not 
forgotten, — there  had  been  no  second  oft'er  of  procuring  a  copy 
of  the  picture. 


CnAPTER  XVIII. 

"Visitors  in  the  drawing-room,  my  lady,"  were  the  words 
which  greeti-d  Blanche,  when  she  and  Eleanor  reached  the 
castle,  with  the  hope  of  making  some  arrangements  for  spending 
the  afternoon  more  profitably  than  had  seemed  possible  of  late. 

"  Fnends  of  my  aunt's,  I  suppose,"  said  Blanche,  speaking  to 
Eleanor  in  an  under  tone.  "  Is  Lady  Charlton  there  ?"  she 
inquired,  aloud. 


1 02  THE      K  A  U  L    S      DAUGHTER. 

"  Yes,  my  huly  :  Lady  Charlton  and  Miss  Adelaide,  llie 
carriage  h:is  been  ordered  away." 

Blanche  went  into  the  house.  "  We  need  not  appear,  1 
imagine,"  she  said  to  Eleanor.  "  I  am  supposed  to  be  out ;  and 
if  wo  once  put  ourselves  in  the  way,  there  is  an  end  to  all 
our  ])lans  for  poor  Susannah."  Eleanor  agreed  that  there  was 
no  absohite  necessity  ;  but  she  stopped  at  tlie  foot  of  the  stair- 
case, and  wondered  who  the  visitoi"s  could  be. 

"  We  shall  be  waylaid,  undoubtedly,"  said  Blanche,  trying  to 
hasten  her. 

''  Hush  !  who  is  that  speaking  ?"  asked  Eleanor,  listening. 

"  Sir  Hugh  scolding  Pearson,  or  Pearson  scolding  Sir  llugb," 
said  Blanche  laughing.  "  lieally,  Eleanor,  you  are  determined 
to  be  caught."  Blanche  spoke  in  jest,  but  her  words  might 
possibly  have  been  true,  for  just  then  the  drawing-room  door 
opened  and  a  number  of  voices  were  heard. 

"  We  shall  be  seen  if  we  attempt  to  go  up-stairs  now,"  said 
Eleanor  decidedly  ;  but  she  had  no  one  to  hear  her  observation, 
for  Blanche  had  already  escaped  to  her  room.  She  sat  there 
for  some  httle  time  very  patiently.  Eleanor,  of  course,  had 
waited  the  one  moment  too  long,  and  been  detained  ;  it  was 
firovoking,  but  there  wjis  no  help  for  it,  and  Blanche  took  out 
Mrs.  Howard's  letter,  in  order  to  occupy  the  intervening  time. 
It  was  curiously  appropriate  to  that  precise  moment.  So  much 
of  it  was  upon  the  subject  of  daily  duties,  daily  interruptions, 
and  the  spirit  in  which  they  should  be  borne. 

"  I  am  not  in  the  least  surprised  at  your  complaints  of  desul- 
toriness,  my  dear  child,"  began  Mrs.  Howard.  "All  persons 
situated  as  you  are  must  in  a  certain  way  be  desultory,  or,  more 
correctly,  they  must  I  sujipose  appear  to  be  so ;  for  it  does  not 
fullow  that  you  should  l)e  so  really.  AVhen  you  laid  down 
your  strict  rules,  before  you  went  away,  I  was  convinced  in  my 
own  mind  that  you  would  find  a  difficulty  in  carrying  them  out, 
but  I  (lid  not  like  to  dishearten  you,  since  a  plan  of  life  is  in 
it-4ilf  good,  even  necessary,  if  we  wish  to  discipline  our  minds 
properly.  The  great  mischief  of  such  plans  is  when  the  fulfil- 
ment of  them  is  too  rigidly  insisted  upon,  and  is  raised  into  a 
vnlue  in  itself,  instead  of  being  considered  as  merely  a  stepping- 
stone.  However,  I  need  not  descant  upon  the  danger  of  too 
niuch  regularity ;  your  difficulty  seems  to  lie  quite  in  the  other 
direction.  ^  Naturally  it  would  be  so,  for  you  cannot  possibly  be 
entu-ely  mistress  of  your  own  time,  and  you  certainly  are  bound 
Hi  duty  to  consider  the  comfort  of  your  guests  befoi'e  your  own. 


THE     eakl's    daughter.  103 

But  there  must  be  a  limit  to  every  duty,  humanly  speaking, 
or  it  will  encroach  upon  another,  and  become  a  fault.  And 
this  limit,  I  think,  is  to  be  found  by  having  a  true  sense  of  our 
position,  not  only  in  life  but  in  our  families.  As  a  daughter, 
you  are  of  course  bound  to  obey  ;  but,  as  the  mistress  of  a 
household,  you  are  equally  bound  to  take  the  lead,  and  to  set 
an  example  q£  order  and  strictness.  I  doubt  if  you  are  likely 
to  remember  this  sufficiently.  Your  mode  of  life  must  in  a 
great  measure  give  the  tone  to  your  whole  household,  and  one 
of  the  most  important  features  in  all  families,  especially  in  one 
which  like  your  own  possesses  influence  from  rank  and  wealth, 
IS  that  it  should  be  under  subservience  to  a  law  of  duty  .ind  not 
of  pleasure.  I  do  not  mean  that  it  is  possible  to  make  iaws  for 
every  hour,  or  every  individual ;  but  it  should  never  le  left  in 
doubt  that  there  are  claims  which  must  be  attended  to;  em- 
ployments which  are  never  to  be  neglected  except  for  some  very 
obvious  reason.  If  your  mother  had  been  spared,  these  respon- 
sibilities would  not  "have  been  yours  as  yet ;  but  you  are  pecu- 
liarly circumstanced,  and  there  are  duties  incumbent  upon  you 
which  seldom  fall  to  the  lot  of  persons  of  your  age.  I  wish  I 
could  give  you  my  ideas  more  in  detail,  for  I  am  afraid  I  shall 
not  satisfy  you  ;  but  what  I  mean  is  something  of  this  kind — I 
suppose  you  breaktl^t  late,  but  that  need  not  prevent  you  from 
rising  early.  If  you  set  the  example  the  servants  must  in  a 
measure  fullew  it,  so  one  great  temptation  in  an  easy  life  will 
be  checked.  I  think  you  would  find  it  useful  not  to  shut  your- 
self up  entirely  in  your  room,  but  to  let  your  servants  see  what 
your  habits  are — as  example  is  better  than  reproof,  and  indeed 
reproof  can  scarcely,  I  imagine,  be  in  the  catalogue  of  your 
duties  at  present.  Then  with  regard  to  your  mornings — you 
intended  I  know,  to  study  regularly ;  and  certainly  it  seems  to 
me  that  you  ought  to  do  so.  Could  you  not  manage  to  give  a 
certain  fixed  time  to  your  aunt  and  cousins,  and  any  other 
guests,  di'-cctly  after  breakfast,  and  then  let  it  be  understood 
that  you  wish  to  have  an  hour  or  two  to  yourself  ?  I  hardly 
think  you  would  give  offence,  and  your  absence  would  by 
degrees  be  take'h  as  a  matter  of  course.  Perhaps,  also,  you 
might  be  able  to  arrange  to  ])ractise  with  your  cousins,  as  you 
say  they  are  both  musical ;  but  then,  my  dear  Blanche,  you 
must  take  the  lead.  If  your  cousin  Adelaide  likes,  what  you 
call,  a  butterfly  life,  it  does  not  at  all  follow  that  you  are  to 
humour  her  :  and  though  she  may  be  some  years  older  than 
yourself,  that  will  not  prevent  vour  being  of  great  use  in  keep- 


104  TiiK    earl's    daughter. 

iiio-  hor  stciJily  to  one  object,  if  you  show  you  are  deteuiiined 
t.rbo  steady  yourself.  So,  again,  I  would  beg  of  you  if  possi- 
ble to  decide  upon  seeing  the  poor  people  on  fixed  days ;  and, 
when  these  davs  come,  say  you  have  an  engagement,  and  make 
any  plans  for  drives,  visits,  &c.,  for  your  friends,  independent  of 
yourself.  Your  reading,  also,  may  be  a  great  help  to  you  as 
reixards  system  and  reg-ularity,  if  you  can  avoid  the  temptation 
of^beginning  every  new  book  that  is  thrown  in  your  way — a 
temptatiou  which,  I  assure  you,  I  can  quite  sympathise  with. 
We  cannot  always  be  studying  history  and  metaphysics,  but, 
when  we  do  indulge  ourselves  in  light  reading  it  should  be  for 
some  si)ecified  reason — at  certain  times,  and  under  certain  limita- 
tions. I  really  believe  that  half  the  mischief  of  novels,  those  I 
mean  which  are  iimocent,  arises  from  their  being  so  enticing 
that  we  are  induced  to  read  them  at  wrong  times.  It  may 
seem  a  very  slight  fault  to  skim  half  a  duzen  pages  more 
when  duty  calls  us  another  way ;  but  I  am  sure  it  injures  the 
conscience  and  untones  the  mind.  If  we  can  read  a  very 
interesting  book  up  to  a  certain  moment,  and  then  reso- 
lutely close  it  because  we  have  something  else  to  do,  the 
relaxation  can  scarcely  have  done  us  harm.  I  am  saying 
nothing  about  higher  rules  and  motives,  because  we  have 
talked  of  them  so  often  before,  and  I  am  sure  from  your  letter 
that  you  have  not  forgotten  them. 

"  This  constant  self-discipline,  no  doubt,  r'^quires  energy  and 
watchfulness,  but  what  is  to  be  done  without  ihem  ?  Especially 
what  can  bo  done  by  persons  situated  as  you  nre,  having  scarcely 
any  external  restraints  upon  their  inclinations  i  You  must  be  a 
law  to  yourself  if  you  wish  to  avoid  that  wretched  frittering  away 
of  life  which  is  the  misery  of  hundreds  of  persons  of  your  age  at 
the  present  moment. 

"  All  I  have  said  is  of  course  subject  to  one  proviso — that 
your  father  should  not  object.  If  he  were  to  insist,  or  even  evi- 
dently to  desire,  that  you  should  give  yourself  up  entirely  to  your 
aunt  and  cousins,  you  can  but  submit;  only  here  again  you 
would  find  a  law,  and  therefore  satisfaction.  It  is  not  lohat 
we  do,  but  ioIi9/  we  do  it,  that  is  of  consequence.  How  often  we 
say  to  ourselves,  speaking  of  things  of  this  world,  '  It  does  not 
wiiuify,  it  is  all  in  the  day's  work  V — and  so,  neither,  does  it  sig- 
nify in  the  concerns  of  another  world,  whether  we  are  called 
U|ion  to  rule  a  kingcom  or  pick  up  stones  from  the  road,  ifonly 
what  we  do  is  work;  work  that  shall  turn  to  account  in  the 
reckoning  of  the  long  day  of  life  ;  work  for  Hiuj  to  whom  nothing 
is  great  and  therefore  nothing  can  be  little." 


THE      E  A  R  L  ■■  S      DAUGHTER.  105 

riaiiche  refolded  her  letter  and  sat  for  some  time  Uiinkinc; 
over  it.  She  could  not  at  once  fully  enter  into  Mrs.  Howard's 
views ;  or,  at  least,  she  could  not  at  once  see  that  they  were 
practicable.  Yet  they  had  given  her  an  idea,  a  principle 
which  might  materially  assist  her  in  the  little  difficulties  that 
often  perplexed  her.  Blanche's  mind  was  resolute  and  decisive. 
This  was  rwt  generally  supjiosed ;  but  those  who  were  in  tlio 
habit  of  interpreting  her  conduct,  too  often  did  so  without  the 
least^knowledge  of  die  real  clue  to  it.  Lady  Charlton  saw  her 
amiable,  agreeable,  and  attractive,  and  called  her  "  a  sweet  girl ;" 
and  Mrs.  Wentworth  understood,  from  conversation  with  Eleanor, 
that  she  was  very  much  fascinated  by  Lady  Charlton,  and  ac- 
customed to  follow  out  her  cousin's  wishes,  and,  in  consequence, 
was  likely  to  lead  a  desultory  objectless  liie  ;  and  su[.posed 
therefore  that  she  was  too  gentle  to  be  strong-minded.  Lord 
Paitherford  indeed  undei'stood  her  better ;  perhaps,  if  he  had  not 
done  so,  he  never  could  have  given  her  his  full  aftection  ;  for, 
like  her,  he  required  respect  to  bring  out  his  feelings,  though  it 
was  respect  for  the  intellect,  not  for  the  heart ;  and  one  of  the 
most  satisfactory  discoveries  he  had  made  in  the  progress  of 
their  intercourse  was  that  she  could  have  an  opinion  and  a  will 
of  her  own.  But,  even  to  him,  it  Avould  have  been  a  matter  of 
surprise  to  witness  the  immediate  eftect  of  Mrs.  Howard's  ad- 
vice. He  could  not  have  understood  the  working  of  a  mind 
which  obej'^d  conscience  as  it  were  instinctively,  and  to  which 
the  bare  possibility  of  a  duty  suggested  an  instant  endeavour  for 
its  performance.  Blanche  required  only  to  perceive  that  Mrs. 
Howard  was  right  in  her  views,  and  of  this  a  very  little  consi- 
deration convinced  her,  and  then  her  thoughts  turned  to  the 
practical  mode  of  carrying  them  out,  quickly,  sincerely,  without 
delav,  or  reservation,  or  excuse,  and  in  perfect  simplicity ;  not 
at  ail  considering  it  necessary  to  guard  against  observation,  or 
to  hide  anything  which  she  intended  to  do ;  but  supposing 
other  persons  would  regard  her  duties  as  she  did  herself^  as  mat- 
ters of  course.  She  had  already  solved  several  difficult  ques- 
tions, when  Eleanor's  quick  step  was  heard  in  the  galh  ry,  an  1 
scarcely  pausing  to  knock  at  the  door  she  entered  the  room  witii 
the  exclamation  : — 

"  My  dear  Blanche  !  I  am  so — so  sorry  ;  I  really  am  vexed  to 
Lave  kept  you  ;  but  — " 

"But  if  people  will   put  themselves  in  the  way  they  must 
be  caught,"  said  Blanche  laughing  ;  "  however,  we  can  go  now." 

"  No,  I  beg  your  pardon,  that  was  what  I  came  to  say,"  con- 


J  06  THE      EARLS      D  A  U  G  11  T  E  K . 

tiiiucd  Eleanor,  liurriedly.  "I  am  afiaid  we  can't  go  this  after* 
noon.  Lady  Charlton  wislies  me  so  very  much  to  stay  ;  they 
are  goinu;  out, — a  large  jiarty  :  slie  quite  pressed  my  joininu 
tlu'iii.    1  am  to  drive  with  your  cousin  Adelaide." 

Llanche  could  not  conceal  her  vexation.  "  And  does  my 
lunt  expect  me  to  go  too  ?"  she  inquired. 

"  Oh  !  no,  I  assure  you,  I  vvas  very  careful.  I  did  not  men- 
tion your  name.  Ko  one  thinks  you  are  in  the  house.  Thev 
su]ipose  I  had  come  to  the  castle  to  look  for  you ;  and  now  1 
have  left  them  with  the  excuse,  that  I  must  write  a  note  to 
mamma  to  tell  her  what  I  intend  doing." 

"And  shall  you  write  ?"  asked  Blanche. 

"  Why  no,  upon  second  thoughts,  I  don't  see  there  is  a  neces- 
sity. I  was  to  sjiend  the  afternoon  with  you,  but  whether  I  o-g 
for  a  walk  or  a  drive  must  be  a  question  of  inditFerence."  The 
latter  part  of  the  sentence  was  spoken  in  that  tone  of  decision 
which  is  sometimes  used  to  conceal  a  doubt.  Blanche,  without 
making  any  observation  in  reply,  put  aside  the  writing  materials 
which  she  was  placing  for  Eleanor's  use. 

"Why  will  you  not  go  with  us,  Blanche?"  continued  Eleanor. 
"  Why  can  you  not  wait  till  to-morrow  ?" 

"  Because  to-morrow  will  be  like  to-day,"  said  Blanche  :  "  it 
will  have  its  own  duties." 

"But  I  could  walk  with  you  then ;  I  promise  that  I  will  not 
put  myself  in  the  way  of  temptation  again." 

"  Then  it  was  temptation,"  said  Blanche,  a  little  reproachfully. 

"  Perhaps  so  ;  it  might  have  been  :  but  I  see  no  harm  in  it. 
Whether  you  go  alone  to  Susannah,  or  whether  I  am  with  vou, 
cannot  make  much  difference  to  her." 

"  But  it  does  to  me,"  said  Blanche,  unable  to  repress  a  feel- 
ing of  vexation  that  Eleanor  should  prefer  a  drive  with  a  paity 
of  com]iarative  strangers  to  a  walk  Avith  herself 

Eleanor  laughed,  and  declared  that  Blanche  must  be  jealous 
of  her  cousin  Adelaide ;  but  there  was  self-dissatisfaction  be- 
neath lier  assumed  indifference,  and  she  brouoht  forward  a 
number  of  excuses  for  her  determination.  "Lady  Charlton 
j.ressed  it  so  much,"  she  said,  "  it  was  almost  impossible  to 
refuse ;  m  fact,  I  suspect  she  wants  me  as  .a  chaperone.  They 
liad  not  settled  liow  it  was  all  to  be  arranged.'  Charles  was 
tliere,  striving  liard  for  the  honour  of  driving  vour  cousin, 
hnnself;  but  Lady  Charlton  had  evidently  set  her' face  a^rainst 
It.     So,  you  see,  I  may  be  useful."  ° 

Blanche  did  her  be'st  to  enter  into  Eleanor's  gaiety,  but  she 


THE      EARLS     DAUGHTER.  107 

could  not  succeed  very  well ;  fur,  as  she  began  to  Uiiiik  of  what 
was  to  be  done,  she  saw  that  all  her  plans  weie  disarraiio-ed , 
and  Eleanor  soon  perceived  it,  also. 

At  the  moment  of  accepting  the  invitation  to  join  Lady 
Charlton's  jiarty,  she  had  not  remembered  that  Blanche  could 
not  well  walk  iis  far  as  Susannah's  cottage  alone.  "  However, 
ihe  next  da^would  do  just  as  well,"  she  said,  "  and  Blanche 
had  better  make  up  her  mind  to  give  up  duty  for  that  after- 
noon, and  go  with  the  rest." 

This  Blanche  declined ;  since  she  was  not  wanted,  she  pre- 
ferred having  the  time  to  herself.  "  I  suppose  you  could  not 
send  an  excuse  to  my  aunt,"  she  suggested. 

But  Eleanor  negatived  the  idea  instantly,  and  after  again 
begging  Blanche  to  forgive  her,  and  promising  to  behave  better 
for  the  future,  hastened  awav. 


CHAPTER  XiX 

Blanche  stood  at  the  window,  watching  the  party,  which 
was  collecting  in  front  of  the  castle.  She  saw  Eleanor  join 
thefli,  and  converse  a  little  with  Adelaide ;  and,  after  some 
delay,  they  both  seated  themselves  in  the  pony  carriage,  and 
drove  ofi" — closely  followed  by  Mr.  "NYentworth  on  horseback. 
Blanche  could  almost  have  repented  having  refused  to  accom- 
pany them;  since  there  was  no  apparent  obstacle  in  the  way. 
But  she  felt  that  she  had  done  what  was  best  for  lier  own  mind, 
and  there  was  great  pleasure  in  the  quietness  and  solitude  now 
so  unusual ;  and  when  the  rumbling  of  the  wheels  and  the  eclio 
of  the  horses'  noofs  died  away  in  the  distance,  she  lingered 
still  by  the  open  window  to  enjoy  the  unVjroken  silence  within 
the  house ;  and  the  low,  soothing,  mingled  sounds  of  nature 
without.  They  are  rare  and  precious  moments,  which  are  thus 
snatched  from  the  whiil  of  hfe  and  spent  in  stillness  and  alone. 
Even  when  they  are  not  devoted  to  direct  meditation,  and  ajipear 
loo  fleeting  to  be  productive  of  good,  they  yet  tend  to  give 
us  a  knowledge  of  the  realities  which  encompass  us.  By  the 
dejith  of  their  solemnity  and  repose,  they  remind  us  that 
beneath  the  surface  of  this  weary,  working  existence,  there  is 
another  world — another,  and  an  enduring  life  ; — imaged  in  the 
unchanging  sky  and  the  returning  sun,  and  the  ever  renewed 


108  THE      EARLS     DAUGHTER. 

boaiitv  o(  the  treo.s  and  flowers,  and  the  steadfastness  of  ihh 
eveila"stin<v  hills ;  and,  if  our  hearts  are  open  to  the  truth,  they 
may  sometimes  teach  us  to  remember,  that  as  in  far  off'  years 
the  ojorious  temple  rose  silently  in  the  city  of  Jerusalem,  neither 
axe  nor  hammer  nor  tool  giving  warning  or  notice  of  the  work, 
so  the  more  glorious  temple — the  Church  of  the  Living  God, — 
is  at  this  moment  rising  unperceived  in  the  midst  of  a  tumultu- 
ous world ;  eacli  stone  quarried  and  fashioned  by  the  sharp  edge 
of  sorrow  and  the  keen  stroke  of  adversity,  umil  perfected  and 
pn^pared,  it  is  fitted  for  that  destined  position  which  shall  bo 
the  place  of  its  rest  for  eternity. 

Thoughts  something  like  these  filled  the  irmd  of  Blanche  as 
she  sat  alone,  enjoying  the  unwonted  quietness  of  the  summer's 
afternoon.  She  had  early  learnt  to  look  upon  what  is,  not 
what  seems  to  be;  but,  dui'ing  the  last  few  weeks,  the  truth  had 
been  at  times  overlooked.  Notwithstanding  the  dissatisfaction 
expressed  to  Mrs.  Howard,  slie  had  found  much  enjoyment  in 
the  society  of  Lady  Charlton  and  her  cousins ;  perhaps  too 
much,  for  it  had  unconsciously  relaxed  tlie  strict,  watchful  tone 
of  her  character.  She  perceived  this  now.  Mrs.  Howard's 
letter  had  given  the  first  warning ;  and  this  short  interval  of 
reflection  repeated  it.  Again  she  reverted  to  the  question  of 
duty,  but  less  practically  than  before.  There  ia  a  close  connec- 
tion between  the  mystery  of  what  we  see  and  the  mystery  of 
what  we  are ;  and  when  Blanche  looked  upon  the  glorious 
laiidsca])e  beneath  her,  and  the  immensity  of  the  sky  above  her, 
she  was  carried  away  far  beyond  the  immediate  consideration 
of  daily  pursuits  into  thoughts  and  speculations  for  which  no 
answer  could  be  found.  Metaphysical  difficulties  suggested 
themselves  ;  questions  upon  the  origin  of  duty — its  bindincr 
power — the  irremediable  consequences  of  its  neglect — the  very 
Cict  of  its  existence,  involving  the  possibility  of  evil ;  and  this 
again  opening  a  new  path  for  the  reason  to  travel,  till  it  stood 
upon  the  brink  of  a  precipice,  and  recoiled  sl>uddering  from  its 
own  prcsunqition.  There  are  many  amongst  ihe  young  whom 
such  thoughts  harass  when  it  is  little  suspected — many,  who 
are  armed  with  no  shield  of  faith  for  their  protection.  We  may 
Well  ]-)ray  for  them,  for  their  peril  is  great ! 
^  "  Is  tliat  you,  lilanche  ?"  exclaimed  a  voice  from  below,  as 
Blanche  still  stood  at  the  window. 

Blanche  started.     "  Maude  !  alone  !     T  thou'^dit  I  saw  you 
Tvith  the  rest."  ° 

"  No,  thank  you  ;   \  am  not  a  gregarious  animal.     And  >^ucL 


THE    earl's    daughtkr..  109 

a  set  too,  as  they  were  I — just  fitted  for  AdehiiJe.  Cat  couie 
down,  I  want  you." 

Blanche  dehxyed.  Slie  had  not  settled  what  she  was  going 
to  do  ;  but,  certainly,  she  had  uo  intention  of  s^jeuding  the 
afternoon  with  Maude. 

"  Come,  you  must  come,"  repeated  Maude,  impatiently ;  "  we 
will  have  a  German  lesson.  I  promised  you  one.  We  will  sit 
u|K)n  the  south  terrace  ;  it  is  deliciously  warm." 

Blfyiche  went  to  another  window,  from  which  ^he  terrace 
co-ild  be  seen.  It  certainly  was  a  most  in\-iting  spct,  with  the 
bright  slanting  rays  of  the  sun  upon  it,  and  the  flowers  border- 
ing it  radiant  in  beauty ;  whilst,  below,  were  contrasted  the 
deep  shadows  of  the  trees  on  the  bank,  and  the  glittering  lines 
of  light  which  flickered  on  the  sides  of  the  distant  hills.  She 
paused  for  a  moment  to  consider ;  and  it  seemed  right  to  go  ; 
— right,  since  her  afternoon  was  interrupted,  to  take  advantage 
of  Maude's  oSer. 

"  We  will  read,"  said  Maude,  holding  up  a  book ;  "  only 
make  haste." 

Blanche  threw  a  shawl  round  her  and  ran  down  stairs. 
Maude  met  her  at  the  hall-door.  She  looked  quite  satisfied, — 
an  unusual  thing  for  her, — and  Blanche  was  glad  that  she  had 
assented. 

"  I  fancied  I  was  quite  alone,"  observed  Maude,  as  she  sat 
down  on  a  -bench  in  the  shade.  "  W'hy  did  you  not  go  with 
the  rest  ?" 

"  I  was  not  asked,"  replied  Blanche  ;  "  that  is,"  obser\ing 
Maude's  look  of  surprise,  "  I  did  not  put  myself  in  the  way  of 
being  asked.     I  meant  to  have  gone  out  with  Eleanor." 

"  Charity  visiting,  I  suppose  ?  "  said  Maude,  with  a  slight 
sneer.  "  Well !  you  are  very  good,  Blanche ;  but,  depend  upon 
it.  it  will  be  better  for  you  to  spend  the  afternoon  in  reading 
'  Egmont '  with  me." 

"Egmont!  Goethe's  Egmont!"  exclaimed  Blanche  ha'^lily 
and  with  doubt. 

"  Yes.     Why  not  ?  " 

"  Goothe!  ""again  repeated  Blanche. 

"  "Well !  "  and  Maude  looked  up  almost  angrily.  "  "What  is 
the  harm  of  Goethe  ?  " 

"  1  don't  know  myself.     I  have  never  read  anything  of  his." 

"  Oidy  the  name  frightens  you.  Now,  my  dear  Blanche,  do  fol 
once  have  an  opinion  of  your  own.  Don't  be  a  Quixote  and  con- 
\ert  a  windmill  into  a  rriant,  and  then  set  to  work  to  fight  it." 


1  1  0  THE      E  A  H  L  '  S      D  A  U  G  11  T  K  R  . 

"  I'.iit  tliQ  world  is  the  Quixote,"  said  Blanche,  laiigliing,  "  no< 
I.     1  oidy  go  by  wliat  I  hear." 

''  Tiie  world  1  that  is  some  few  bigoted  individuals  who  con- 
dcnni  every  creed  which  is  not  cut  and  squared  after  their  own 
[latlvrn.     Your  father  does  not  say  so,  I  am  sure." 

"  No ;  he  has  often  promised  to  read  part  of  Goethe  with 
me.  Only  part,"  she  added,  laying  her  hand  upon  the  book, 
!is  Maude  with  a  triumphant  smile  opened  it. 

"  Kgmont  is  a  part — a  very  grand  part,  perfectiv  unexcM)- 
tionable." 

"  Are  you  sure  ? "  said  Blanche.  "  I  think  " — an  1  she  raised 
her  eyes  to  her  cousin's  face  with  an  expressi  jn  of  child-like  con- 
fidence ;  "  I  think  I  might  trust  you." 

The  sneer  which  still  rested  upon  Maude's  lips  vanished 
directly.  She  turned  to  Blanche,  and  said  eagerly,  "Thank 
you ;  yes,  of  course  you  may  trust.  Whatever  I  might 
read  myself,  I  could  never  ask  you  to  listen  to  a  word  which 
might  offend  you." 

"  But  Goethe,"  said  Blanche,  as  if  speaking  aloud  her  own 
thoughts  ;  "  there  is  such  a  prejudice  against  him — there  must 
be  something  wrong — something  dangerous." 

'■  Dangerous  !  absurd  folly  !  "  and  Maude  turned  the  leaves 
quickly  in  her  irritation,  exclaiming — as  she  went  on,  "  The  fear 
of  weak,  narrow-minded  cowards — false  to  their  own  convic- 
tion— envious  of  a  great  mind.  Blanche,  you  must  not  be  one 
of  them." 

"I  hope  I  should  be  always  true  to  my  own  convictions," 
answered  Blanche  ;  "  but  it  is  very  possible  th.at  you  may  call 
them  narrow-minded.    I  think  you  would,"  she  added,  boldly. 

Maude  fixed  upon  her  a  steady,  penetrating  gaze,  and  said 
slowly,  "  I  like  that ;  better  be  narrow-minded  and  firm,  than 
narrow-ninded  and  weak.     You  shall  read  Egmout." 

"  Tell  me  its  faults  first,"  said  Blanche. 

"  Faults  !  it  has  none.  It  is  the  most  wonderfully  true,  noble, 
inspiriting — but,  you  are  a  coward,  after  all ;"  and  she  threw 
down  the  book  and  stood  gazing  over  the  edge  of  the  terrace. 

Blanche  went  up  to  her.  "I  hope  I  am  not  a  coward, 
Maude ;  but  we  all  know  the  weak  points  of  our  own  minds. 
Goethe's  works  must  have  something  in  them  which  does  harm 
to  some  persons — I  may  possibly  be  one.  Tell  me  if  there  is 
anything  in  Egmont  which  is  generally  objected  to." 

"  By  whom  ?  "  said  Maude,  sarcastically.  "  By  Mrs.  Smith 
—Brown— White— Green — Black  ?  " 

"  By  persons  whose  opinions  I  am  bound  to  respect." 


THE     earl's     daughter.  Ill 

"By  yourself,  rather,"  exclaimed  Maude,  impatietitly.  "  Dc 
forget  such  folly,  Blanche,  and  judge  for  yourself.  As  for  the 
story,  it  is  matter  of  history ;  though  with  Goethe,  it  is  not 
history,  but  actual,  breathing  reality.  It  is  Egmont  as  he  was, 
as  he  lived,  and  talked,  and  thought ;  with  his  gallant,  chivalric 
bearing — his  openness,  generosity,  disinterestedness,  love  of 
freedom,  fearldssness  of  the  world's  censure.  One  must  have 
loved  him,  one  must  have  been  Clarchen,  ^\ho  died  with  him." 

Blayhe  repeated  quickly,  "  Died  with  him  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  for  him — with  him ;  she  loved  him  too  well  to  survive 
him." 

The  next  words  were  uttered  by  Blanche  hurried.y,  with  an 
effort ;  "  Who  committed  suicide,  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Pshaw  !  yet  I  might  have  known  it,  it  is  all  education. 
Suicide !  Yes,  what  people  call  suicide.  She  kills  herself. 
You  are  shocked.  What  a  mistake  to  have  told  you  !  It  is  all 
spoilt  now ;  but  you  shall  read  it  still ;  and  tell  me  whether 
Goethe  cannot  ennoble  such  a  death." 

Maude  jiut  her  arm  round  her  cousin  to  draw  her  bade  to  the 
seat,  but  Blanche  resisted.  "  I  am  not  afi-aid  to  read  it,"  she 
said  ;  "  but  it  will  give  rae  pain." 

"Yes;  that  ]>ain  which  is  pleasure, — the  pain  of  sympathy 
and  admiration." 

"That  was  notwdiat  I  meant.  I  am  sure  I  should  admire  it, 
but  I  could  not  sympathize  with  it." 

"  Not  with  Egmont  1 — not  with  ClLlrchen  ?  " 

"  Not  with  suicide,"  said  Blanche,  quietlv. 

"  Pooh ! — nonsense  !  Why  will  you  harp  upon  the  same 
subject  ?  Of  course,  I  do  not  admire  suicide.  1  allow  that  it 
is  a  crime,  per  se  ;  a  great  crime  if  you  will ;  but  I  do  say, 
and  I  will  always  say,  that  Goethe  sanctities  it  by  the  power  of 
Lis  genius ;  that  such  love  as  Cliirchen's,  is  the  love  of  a  noble, 
self-devoting  spirit ;  that  it  is  beautiful,  and  ti'ue  love." 

"  No ;  no  ! "  exclaimed  Blanche,  eagerly. 

"  Not  beautiful !  Not  true  !  Then  what  is  so  ?  "  and  Maude's 
eyes  flashed  with  irritation. 

"  Love  which'  lives  through  sorrow,"  said  Blanche,  her  voice 
slightly  trembling.     "  Not  love  which  dies  to  escape  it." 

Maude  laid  down  the  book  which  she  held  in  her  hand, 
wliilst  waiting  for  a  further  explanation  of  her  cousin's  ideas, 
and  fixed  upon  her  a  cool,  patient  gaze,  which  was  peculiarly 
repelling. 

Blanche   turned   away  her  eyes  and  went  on  ;  "  You  asked 


112  T  II  K      R  A  K  I.     S      D  A  U  G  m  E  R  . 

me  once  abDut  my  notions  and  theories,"  slie  said,  "  and  I  ctid 
not  like  to  tell  you  ;  I  am  afraid  I  was  wrongs,  but  you  must 
forgive  me.  I  don't  tliir.k  I  liave  what  you  would  call  theories  ; 
but  I  have  juinciiiles.  And,  since  you  are  kind  enough  to  read 
with  me,  and  talk  to  me,  I  should  like  you  to  know  them, 
because  then  we  shall  understand  each  other  better.  And, 
another  reason — they  are  true  principles  to  me  ;  and  when  you 
talk,  it  seems  as  if  you  were  trying  to  uproot  them.  But  it 
would  bo  unkind  to  do  so,"  she  added,  very  earnestly,  as  she 
remembered  the  maze  of  perjilexities  in  which  but  a  short  time 
before  she  had  been  involved,  when  suffering  her  thoughts  to 
wander  without  check  or  guidance.  "  Even,  if  you  could  suc- 
ceed, you  would  only  be  making  me  wretched,  for  they  are  my 
hope  and  comfort — my  happiness."  And,  in  her  energy, 
] Blanche  clasped  her  liands,  and  drew  up  her  slender,  graceful 
figure  in  an  attitude  of  strength  and  power,  Avhich  made  the 
half  sneer  upon  Maude's  foce  melt  into  a  smile  of  admiration. 

"  And  these  thoughts  and  principles  are  what  ? "  asked 
Maude,  patronizingly. 

Blanche  pressed  her  hands  more  closely  together,  and  still 
averting  her  eyes  from  her  cousin,  answered,  "They  are  what 
you  may  call  narrow-minded  prejudices — they  are  religion." 

"  Religion  ! — yes  ;  certainly  ; — extremely  right,"  said  Maude, 
still  in  the  same  manner.     "  I  hope  I  am  religious  too." 

Blanche  was  for  an  instant  distressed  and  perplexed. 

"  My  dear  child !"  said  Maude,  speaking  in  a  light  playful 
Avay,  which  made  Blanche  shrink  at  the  recollection  of  her  own 
enthusiasm  ;  "  my  poor  Blanche  !  what  an  excitement  you  have 
worked  yourself  into  !     I  declare  you  look  quite  ill." 

Blanche  with  difficulty  resisted  the  temptation  to  run  away. 
"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  "I  am  not  ill.  I  did  not  mean  to  be 
excited.  I  merely  wished  to  say  to  you  why  I  never  could 
agree  in  your  admiration  of  Egmont." 

"  Because  of  that  naughty  Clarchen,"  observed  Maude  ;  "  but 
we  will  forget  her  ;  we  will  choose  Schiller,  if  you  like  it, 
and  give  up  Goethe  for  the  present.  By-and-by,  when  you  have 
seen  a  little  of  the  world  besides  St.  Ebbe's,  and  this  grim  old 
ca.stle,  you  will  not  be  so  much  shocked  at  him." 

Blanche  drew  back  from  the  caress  with  which  these  words 
were  about  to  be  accompanied.  "  I  never  can  wish  that  time  to 
come,"  she  said.  "  If  it  did,  I  should  have  learnt  to  bear  with 
that  which  my  reason,  as  well  as  my  faith,  tells  me  is  utterly 
.'rilse." 


THE      EAKL's     DAUGIITEIl.  113 

There  was  a  silence  of  some  moments. 

Maude  appeared  struck  with  the  firmness  of  her  cousin'a 
tone.  She  dropped  the  patronizing  air  which  she  had  assumed, 
and  said,  "  Goethe's  principles  cannot  be  false,  for  they  will  find 
an  echo  in  the  heal-t  of  every  one  who  can  admire  generosity 
and  devotedness,  and  an  undying,  unchanging  atfection. " 

"I  have^ot  read  his  works,"  was  all  the  answer  which 
Blanche  made.     She  seemed  weary  of  the  argument. 

Maude  again  had  recourse  to  the  volume  by  her  side.  Open- 
ing it  towards  the  end,  she  read  a  few  sentences  to  herself.  "  I 
cannot  let  you  have  such  notions,  Blanche,"  she  exclaimed,  after 
a  short  pause  ;  "  they  are  beneath  you.  You  must  read, — you 
must  admire." 

"  As  1  should  admire  a  dream  or  a  fairy  tale,"  said  Blanche, 
smiling. 

"  That  is  Avhat  I  don't  understand  ;  it  is  the  only  thing  I  can't 
understand  in  you,"  said  Maude.  "  What  do  you  mean  by  a 
dream  ?  Patriotism,  the  love  of  libert}%  generosity,  love,  are 
realities  :  you  can  feel  them  yourself ;  I  know,  I  am  sure,  you 
can." 

"  I  hope  I  can,"  replied  Blanche.  "  I  think  them  very  real, 
very  lovely,  and  admirable." 

"  And  therefore  true,"  continued  Maude  ;  "  true,  that  is  the 
point, — that  is  the  object  to  be  sought  after,  desired,  striven, 
prayed  for  !"  She  s]ioke  earnestly,  her  dark  grey  eyes  kindling, 
and  her  colour  heightened. 

"  Yes,  truth  ;  it  is  the  one  thing  needful,"  replied  Blanche  : 
"  but  Mrs.  Howard  says  that  a  half  truth  must  be  the  greatest 
of  falsehoods." 

"  What  ?  say  it  again,"  exclaimed  Maude. 

Blanche  repeated  the  words. 

"  Goethe's  truths  are  half  truths,  you  mean,"  continued  Maude. 

"  I  think  they  must  be  ;  like  the  half  truths  of  heathenism, 
which  led  men  to  idolatry." 

"  But  a  whole  truth,  who  can  find  it  ? — who  can  be  certain 
of  it  ?"  said  Maude  in  a  musing  tone. 

"  God  is  truth,"  replied  Blanche,  timidly  and  reverently. 

"  Yes,"  and  Maude's  manner  became  reverent  also  ;  "  but  men 
also  are  divine — in  their  noblest  feehngs,  their  highest  desires." 

"  We  were  made  in  the  image  of  God,"  observed  Blanche  : 
"  but  the  image  is  defaced." 

"  Granted,  of  coui-se.     Defaced  ;  but  not  utterly  ruined — no' 

loGt." 


I  1  .J  THE      EARLS      D  A  U  C  >I  T  E  R  . 

"  No,  imleed  not,"  exclaimed  Blanche,  entluisiastically  ;  "  not 
lost, — still  to  be  restored,  renewed  again  ;  but  it  must  l>e  after 
the  perfect  original." 

"  I  am  tired  of  symbols,"  said  Maude,  hastily. 

"Still,  may  I  tell  you,  will  you  not  think  me  very  presump- 
tuous if  I  say  Avhat  such  notions  as  I  believe  Goethe's  to  be 
aj^pear  to  me  to  resemble  ?"  continued  Blanche  :  "  those  I  mean 
which  make  persons  interesting,  and  in  a  certain  way  good, 
without  beins;  Christians.  I  must  use  an  illustration  ;  I  cannot 
explain  myself  else.  It  is  as  if  he  had  accidentally  met  with 
separate  fragments  of  what  had  once  been  the  copy  of  a  perfect 
Btatue  ;  and  because  he  admired  each  portion  separately,  sup- 
posed that  by  uniting  them  all  together  the  whole  would  be 
beautiful." 

'•  Of  course,  of  course,"  interrupted  Maude  ;  "  they  could  not 
be  less  beautiful  when  put  together  than  they  were  before,  sup- 
posing they  were  all  the  work  of  the  same  hand." 

"But  if  parts  were  wanting,"  continued  Blanche:  "  or  if 
Goethe  had  never  seen  the  ])erfect  original,  and  therefore,  instead 
of  combining  them  according  to  the  first  design,  formed  a  figure 
after  the  imagination  of  his  own  heart — distorted  and  defi- 
cient,— there  would  be  no  beauty  in  the  whole,  though  every 
separate  member  might  be  perfect." 

"  Well !"  was  all  Maude  would  say. 

"  I  think, — it  seems  to  me,"  continued  Blanche,  hesitating, 
"  that  this  is  something  like  such  principles  as  you  tell  me  are 
to  be  found  in  Egmont.  The  feelings  described  may  be  good 
and  true  separately  ;  but  they  can  scarcely  be  so  when  they 
are  put  together,  because  love  and  obedience  to  God  are 
wanting." 

"No,"  exclaimed  Maude;  "Goethe,  in  Egmont  at  least, 
would  make  men  obedient  to  the  principles  implanted  in  them 
by  nature  and  conscience.  You  would  not  wish  for  a  better 
guide  than  conscience." 

"  It  must  be  the  conscience  of  the  Bible,  then,"  said  Blanche  ; 
"  not  the  conscience  of  a  fallen  nature.  This  is  setting  myself 
up  as  being  able  to  decide  very  weighty  questions,"  she  added, 
blushing  ;  "  but  I  have  gained  all  my  ideas  from  Mrs.  Howard, 
'i'houghts  used  to  come  into  my  head  and  puzzle  me,  and  I  used 
to  talk  to  her  about  them  ;  and  she  made  them  clearer." 

"  I  should  like  to  argue  her  into  admiring  Goethe,"  said 
Maude,  "  that  would  be  a  triumph." 

"  Impossible !"  exclaimed  Blanche ;  "  tliat  is,  to  make  her 


TUE    earl's    daughter.  115 

approve  would  be  impossible  ;  or  admire  either,  in  one  sense  ; 
because  she  never  admires  what  is  not  true." 

"  True  !  true  !"  repeated  Maude  to  herself.  "  If  one  could 
only  find  what  is  true  !" 

"  We  are  not  true  ourselves,"  said  Blanche,  "  because  of  our 
e\'il  nature  ;  so  that  if  there  is  truth  anywhere,  it  must  be  in 
something  distinct  from  ourselves." 

"  Yes  f  I  suppose  it  may  be  so,"  replied  Maude,  doubtfully. 

"  Ijj  the  Bible,  then  ?"  continued  Blanche  ;  and  finding  that 
Maude  did  not  contradict  her,  she  added, ''  Goethe  and  the  Bible 
would  not  agree  ;  therefore  Goethe's  principles  must  be  untrue. 
Am  I  very  obstinate  ?" 

"  You  are  very  provoking,"  replied  Maude,  tossing  the  book 
from  her.  "I  will  never  ask  you  to  read  Egmont  again  ;  you 
mav  be  quite  certain  of  that." 

She  spoke  with  irritation,  but  Blanche  fancied  tl.at  some 
portion  of  it  was  assumed.  "  I  did  not  say  that  I  would  not 
read  it,  and  admire  it  too,"  she  said ;  "  but  you  must  let  me  try 
and  think  that  ClUrchen  was  a  heathen." 

Maude  looked  sullen.  She  went  forward,  picked  up  the 
book,  and  turned  towards  the  house.  Just  then  Lord  Ruther- 
ford came  upon  the  terrace ;  he  had  been  riding,  and  had  re- 
turned earlier  than  he  expected.  Maude's  countenance  struck 
him  as  he  passed  her,  and,  when  he  joined  Blanche,  he  began 
to  inquire  what  was  the  matter. 

Blanche  did  not  venture  to  tell  liim  the  whole.  She  had  an 
intuitive  perception  of  the  points  upon  whicli  they  might  differ, 
and  avoided  them  carefully.  Difference  with  him  was  very 
unlike  difference  with  her  cousin  ;  it  involved  so  much  more. 
And  then  she  wjis  afraid  of  him ;  afraid  of  his  cool,  keen 
sarcasm  ;  especially  afraid,  because  she  could  not  feel,  as  she  did 
when  conversing  with  Maude,  that,  however  at  variance  their 
sentiments  might  be,  both  were  earnestly  seeking  f.fter  truth. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


"  AxD  you  were  not  inclined  to  be  of  your  aunt's  party, 
(hen  ?"  began  the  earl,  after  Blanche  had  brieily  told  him  that 
she  had  just  finished  an  argument  with  Maude,  which  left  them 
apparently  both  where  they  had  begun. 

'•  Tlie  party  was  formed  before  I  came  back  from  the  parson 


1 1(5  THE    earl's    daughter. 

ni;v,"  roplied  Blanche  ;  "  and  I  meant  to  liave  gone  for  a  walk 
with  Eleanor." 

"  You  are  wonderfully  fond  of  the  parsonage,  Blanche.  Are 
you  in  love  with  Mrs.  Wentwoith  yet  ?" 

A  remembrance  of  the  morning  interview  came  to  Blanche's 
mind,  and  she  answered  quickly,  "  Oh,  no  !  not  at  all  in  love." 
A(Mini>-,  to  soften  her  words,  "  she  requires,  I  think,  to  be  known 
wcll."° 

"Better  than  I  ever  knew  lier,"  observed  the  ea^l,  with 
asperity.  "  She  is  one  of  those  chill  pieces  of  propriety  whoso 
very  presence  freezes  one's  blood.  Marvellous  it  is  to  me  that 
she  should  have  such  children.  Miss  Wentworth  is  superior  in 
every  way ;  and  her  brother  is  a  very  handsome,  agreeable  man." 

"  They  are  a  handsome  family,"  observed  Blanche.  "  Dr. 
Wentworth " 

The  earl  interrupted  her :  "  My  dear,  you  were  going  out ; 
into  the  village,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes,  some  distance ;  but  I  could  not  go  alone,  and  the 
pony-carriage  was  given  up  for  my  aunt." 

"  Well !  I  will  go  with  you  ;  you  are  not  tired,  I  suppose  ?" 

Blanche  thought  of  Maude.  She  fancied  that  it  was  unkind 
to  leave  her. 

Her  father  drew  near  the  steps  which  led  down  the  bank. 
"  You  are  going, — which  way  ?     Can  I  help  you  ?" 

Blanche  mentioned  her  cousin's  name  ;  but  the  earl  quickly 
negatived  the  idea  of  asking  her  to  join  them,  ending,  however, 
with,  "  unless  you  particularly  wish  it,  my  love.  I  would  have 
you  do  whatever  you  like." 

Blanche  did  not  make  a  second  proposal.  She  ran  lightly 
down  the  steps,  and  taking  her  father's  arm,  they  followed  the 
path  which  led  them  through  the  underwood,  and  amongst  the 
scattered  trees,  down  to  the  edge  of  the  stream.  A  rough 
bridge  was  thrown  over  it,  and  Blanche,  leading  the  way,  with- 
out thinking  it  necessary  to  explain  where  she  was  going, 
crossed  it,  and  pursued  the  path  over  a  green  field  to  the  foot 
of  the  steep,  broken  ground  which  bordered  it.  Lord  Ruther- 
ford walked  on  in  silence,  till  Blanche  began  to  ascend  the  bank, 
when  he  stopped,  and  rallying  her  upon  her  forgetfuluess  of  his 
age,  asked  her  where  she  intended  to  carry  him. 

"  Only  a  httle  way, — quite  a  little  way  by  this  bad  road," 
replied  Blanche  :  "  we  shall  be  in  a  straight  forward  lane,  when 
we  are  at  the  top  of  the  bank.  But,  papa,  I  will  not  go  on  if 
you  had  rather  not.     I  was  going  to  see  Susannah  Dyer.'* 


THE    earl's    daughter.  n't 

"  Susannah  who  ?     Oli !  a  poor  woman,  I  suppose." 

"  A  bhnd  girl,"  said  Blanche. 

"  Blind  !  poor  thing  ! — extremely  sad.  Blanche,  my  darling, 
you  will  sit  down,  and  rest  first." 

The  afternoon  v/as  passing  rapidly,  and  Blanche's  hopes  of 
visiting  Susannah  Dyer  were  becoming  very  slight ;  but  she  sat 
down  obediently. 

"  Susannali  was  confirmed  when  I  was,"  sh^^  commenced 
again. 

"  OK,  yes  ;  I  recollect  you  told  me  before.  There  is  no  harm 
in  your  going  to  see  her  :  you  like  it,  I  suppose  ;  and  you  have 
not  much  amusement." 

Blanche  smiled  to  herself  at  the  word  amusement,  for  it  was 
not  what  she  generally  associated  with  her  visits  to  the  poor. 

"  Your  aunt  has  been  talking  to  me,"  continued  the  earl,  fol- 
lowing, as  he  always  did,  the  train  of  his  own  ideas.  "  She 
says  I  bury  you  here  :  it  is  not  the  season  for  London,  or  she 
would  make  me  take  you  there  directly." 

"Me  !  London  !  Oh  I  papa,  I  am  quite  happy  where  I  am." 

"  Happy  in  your  ignorance,  my  love  !  I  am  glad  you  are  .* 
but  ignorance  will  not  do  all  one's  life  ;  and  you  must  be  con- 
demned to  London,  by-and-by,  I  am  afi-aid.  Condemned  to  a 
gay  life, — balls,  f^tes,  concerts." 

"  They  sound  pleasant,"  said  Blanche.  "  I  suppose  I  shall 
like  them ;  but  Mi-s.  Wentworth  tells  Eleanor  that  she  should 
not  like  her  to  be  placed  within  reach  of  them." 

''  Mrs.  Wentworth  is  not  your  guide,  my  love.  I  mean,  you 
are  not  at  all  called  upon  to  take  her  views.  I  don't  wish  you 
to  do  so.     I  like  you  to  form  your  own." 

Blanche  was  checked  and  afraid  to  say  how  much  she  was 
inclined  to  respect  Mrs.  Wentworth's  views.  It  was  always  the 
case  when  conversing  with  her  father.  With  all  his  partiality 
— his  d'^votion,  it  might  be  called — his  eagerness  to  gain  her 
confidence — insensibly,  he  repelled  her.  She  was  always 
choosing  subjects  for  conversation,  thinking  whether  he  would 
be  pleased.  There  is  no  real  freedom  where  this  feeling 
exists. 

"  Voiir  aunt,"  again  began  the  earl,  "  is  very  different  from 
Mrs.  Wentworth.  She  is  a  person  of  large,  comprehensive 
mind,  and  very  unprejudiced.  You  must  find  the  difference  in 
talking  to  them," 

"  My  aunt  is  much  the  more  agreeable,"  said  Blanche. 

"And  her  opiniims  are  much  the  more  valuable,"  continued 


118  THE      EAKL's      daughter. 

tlie  oarl.  "  You  could  not  find  a  safer  friend  to  introduce  you 
into  tlie  world.  She  understands  the  thinir  so  well  ;  you 
cannot  possibly  make  mistakes  if  you  follow  her  advice.  She 
has  an  intuitive  perception  of  right  and  wrong  in  all  cases." 

"  I  think  she  has  very  good,  high  notions,"  said  Blanche. 

"  Yes ;  very  good,  very  high  ;  what  all  persons  should  have," 
said  the  earl  quickly.  "  But  I  was  thinking  of  society.  I  have 
perfect  confidence  in  your  good  taste,  my  child  ;  yet  you  might, 
in  iiniorance,  oflend  against  the  customs  of  the  world,  if  you  had 
no  one  to  direct  you.  And  it  is  a  woman's  direction  which  is 
required ;  no  man  could  understand  what  is  wanted.  I  should 
be  quite  satisfied  if  I  thought  your  first  introduction  'nto  society 
would  be  under  your  aunt's  chaperonage." 

"  And  will  it  not  be?"  inquired  Blanche,  in  a  tone  of  surprise. 

"  There  is  a  doubt.  Sir  Hugh  has  odd  whims,  and  some- 
times fancies  he  can  only  live  abroad.  I  think  it  possible  he 
will  not  remain  in  England  more  than  a  twelvemonth  ;  if  so,  it 
would  be  my  great  wish  to  give  you  a  little  insight  into  life 
soon.     You  will  be  more  than  seventeen  in  the  spring." 

"  Yes  ;  but  that  seems  a  long  time  oft""  said  Blanche. 

"  You  mio'ht  enjoy  a  season  in  town,  then7'  continued  the 
earl,  "  and  your  aunt  miglit  be  with  us  ;  "  and,  in  the  mean  time, 
I  think  it  would  be  desirable  to  show  you  something  more  than 
the  routine  of  our  present  life.  Y^our  cousins  would  like  it,  so 
would  your  aunt,  and  it  might  induce  her  to  remain  with  us  longer. 
She  had  an  idea  the  other  day  of  persuading  Sir  Hugh  to  go 
down  to  his  own  place  ;  and  I  had  some  difficulty  in  talking  her 
out  of  it.  It  would  be  an  absurdity.  Sir  Hugh  never  rests  there  : 
he  no  sooner  feels  himself  tied  down  to  a  place,  than  he  is  in  an 
agony  to  leave  it." 

"  But  is  it  not  riglit  for  persons  to  live  on  their  own  pro- 
perty," inquired  Blanche ;  "  and  take  care  of  it  and  of  the  people, 
as  you  do  ?" 

"  Kight,  if  they  like  it,  my  dear  :  but  Sir  Hugh's  steward 
does  infinitely  more  good  at  Senilhurst  than  Sir  Hugh  himself 
However,  the  question  now  is  not  about  him.  What  shall  you 
say,  Blanche,  to  an  importation  of  visitors  ?" 

Blanche  laughed  and  blushed,  and  thought  it  might  be 
pleasant,  quite  pleasant,  if  only  her  aunt  could  be  the  lady  of 
the  castle  instead  of  herself. 

"  There  we  must  differ,"  replied  the  earl,  turning  upon  her  a 
look  of  fond  admiration.  "  There  is  but  one  who  can  fitly  fill 
that  station, — only  one,"  he  repeated,  in  a  lower  tone.     Then, 


THE    earl's    daughter.  110 

after  a  short  pause,  lie  resumed,  "  And  will  you  like  it,  Blanche  ? 
tliat  was  my  doubt.  Tell  me, — let  me  know,"  he  continued, 
seeing  that  she  was  uncertain  what  to  rei>ly. 

Blanche  was  obliged  to  speak  ;  she  never  dared  to  delay  an 
answer  when  her  father's  maimer  was  impetuous  ;  but  she  could 
only  repeat  that  it  might  be  pleasant.  This  she  saw  did  not 
satisfy  him,  a»d  making  an  effort  to  be  candid,  she  added,  ''  1 
cannot  be  sure  till  I  have  tried  ;  and  I  do  not  like  to  say  that  I 
wish  it,  because  I  think  it  might  do  me  harm." 

"  Harm  ?*'  the  earl  turned  to  her  hastily. 

"  I  might  like  it  too  well,"  continued  Blanche,  her  voice  fal- 
tering a  little,  as,  with  an  instinctive  feeling  that  it  would  be 
better  not  to  provoke  any  discussion  upon  duty  ;  she  added, 
"  To-day  I  do  not  seem  to  care  about  it,  because  I  have  been 
disappointed  about  Mrs.  Howard.  I  looked  forward  to  her 
NTsit  so  much,  that  now  I  do  not  seem  to  have  an  interest  in 
other  people.  I  dare  say  I  shall  enjoy  it  though,  dear  papa," 
she  said,  perceiving  that  he  looked  disappointed ;  "  and  you 
will  not  scold  me  for  being  fond  of  Mrs.  Howard."  She  looked 
up  into  his  face  with  a  smile,  though  a  tear  glistened  in  her  eye. 
It  was  a  smile  of  bright,  heavenly  beauty  ;  but  it  brought  proud 
visions  of  earth  to  the  worldly  mind  of  the  Earl  of  Rutherford. 

"  No,"  he  exclaimed  ;  "  I  would  have  you  love,  venerate, 
delight  in  her.  Whatever  my  Blanche  loves  must  be  most 
worthy.  But-  there  are  aflections — feelings  to  be  brought  forth 
under  other  circumstances.  Scenes  more  fitted  for  you.  You 
do  not  think,  Blanche,  that  I  could  consent  to  see  you  wear  out 
the  best  years  of  your  existence  here  ;  when  I  have  but  to  speak 
the  word,  and  you  may  be  the  centre  of  attraction,  the  star,  the 
guiding  light  of  hundreds.  No,"  he  added,  as  Blanche's  colour 
deepened,  till  her  forehead  was  dyed  of  a  crimson  hue  ;  "  I 
would  not  pain  you,  my  child,  with  your  o^vn  praises.  I  speak 
selfishly,  for  my  own  happiness.  To  see  you  wasted  at  Ruther- 
ford would  be  wretchedness.  For  my  sake,  you  must  forget  the 
dreams  of  your  childhood,  and  look  forward  to  the  prospect 
opening  before  you." 

"  It  will  not  be  very  difficult,  I  dare  say,"  said  Blanche,  trying 
to  throw  her  own  mind  into  harmony  with  her  father's.  '•  1 
dare  say  I  have  a  taste  for  gaiety,  only  I  have  never  had  any 
oj'portunity  of  indulging  it." 

"Then  you  shall  have  it  now,"  exclaimed  the  earl,  his  face 
brightening.  "  I  have  been  remiss,  certainly,  in  my  attentions 
U>  the  people  about  us;  but  we  will  have  a  few  persons  in  the 
6 


120  rilK       KAKL     S      DAUGHTER. 

house  to  help  us  to  entertain  tliem,  and  then  we  can  collect  them 
en  masse,  and  make  it  agreeable." 

"  Soon,"  inquired  Blanche,  with  a  timidity  which  she  could 
not  hide. 

Lord  Rutherford  laughed.  "  The  execution-day  is  not  fixed ; 
but,  my  love," — and  his  lightness  of  manner  in  a  moment 
chant^ed  into  seriousness — "you  must  not  deceive  me  as  to  your 
wishes.  Neither  for  your  aunt,  nor  for  myself,  nor  for  any 
human  being,  will  I  consent  to  do  what  you  do  not  like.  You 
have  only  to  say  the  word,  and  Rutherford  shall  be  as  quiet  and 
monotonous  for  the  next  six  months  as  it  has  been  up  to  this 
moment." 

The  word  Monotonous  gave  Blanche  a  quick  insight  into  her 
Other's  feelings.  Though  he  would  not  own  it  the  desire  for  so- 
ciety was  as  much  for  his  sake  as  for  hers.  She  could  not  disappoint 
him ;  and,  besides,  she  was  not  in  her  heart  inchned  to  do  so. 
Blanche  was  young  and  naturally  cheerful.  She  enjoyed 
change,  and  amusement,  and  excitement ;  and,  though  she 
dreaded  them  as  possible  evils,  she  had  never  experienced  any 
harm  from  them.  Eleanor,  too,  she  knew  would  enjoy  the 
novelty,  and  Adelaide  Charlton  would  be  delighted ;  and,  with 
all  these  mingled  inducements  to  bias  her  inclinations,  she  at 
length  answered,  as  heartily  as  the  earl  desired,  that  "she 
should  certainly  like  it,  provided  only  that  her  aunt  would 
undertake  the  management  of  every  thing ;"  and  then,  hoping 
that  her  father  would  be  satisfied,  she  stood  up  and  proposed  to 
continue  their  walk. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


When  Blanche  reached  the  blind  girl's  cottage,  she  was  not 
quite  in  the  mood  for  such  a  visit.  Her  fancy  had  been  wan- 
dering,— yielding  to  the  gay  ideas  which  her  father  had  sug- 
gested. Lord  Rutherford  went  with  her  till  they  were  within 
sight  of  the  house,  and  then  he  took  out  his  watch  and  said  that 
it  was  late,  and  hojied  that  Blanche  would  not  stay  too  long. 
"  It  was  a  strange  fancy  to  like  corains:  to  such  an  ugly  place." 
Blanche  was  vexed  that  she  had  brought  him  ;  and  blamed  her- 
self for  not  understanding  him  better,  at  least  for  not  consulting 
his  wishes  more.  This  was  one  of  the  many  trifling  incidents 
which  were  continually  reminding  her  of  the' little  true  sympa- 


THE      EAKi's      DAUGHTER,  121 

tliy  there  was  between  them.  He  did  not  reallj  care  for  the 
tliin;^  for  which  she  cared,  notwithstanding- his  des.  re  of  making 
her  happy.  She  opened  a  wicket-gate,  and  walked  up  a  narrow 
shp  of  garden  to  a  square,  red  brick  house,  the  only  ornament 
of  which  was  a  straggling  monthly  rose.  She  was  almost  re- 
solved not  to  go  in ;  there  was  a  sound  of  voices  in  the  house, 
and  she  said  t<J  herself  that  perhaps  it  was  another  visitor,  and 
she  should  be  in  the  way.  Good  reasons,  or  such  as  are  appa- 
rently afood,  always  rise  up  to  the  aid  of  inclination.  Herfatiier 
was  leaning  over  the  palings,  and  she  feared  he  was  growing 
impatient,  and  her  knock  at  the  door  was  hasty  in  consequence. 
In  answer  to  her  first  inquiry,  she  was  told  that  Susannah  was 
not  well,  and  was  only  just  dressed  and  coming  out  of  her  bed- 
room. Blanche  was  about  to  find  an  excuse,  and  say  that  she 
would  call  another  day ;  but  conscience  reproached  her,  and  she 
never  turned  away  from  that  warning.  After  Mi-s.  Howard's 
adnce,  she  certainly  ought  not  to  postpone  any  duty  which 
presented  itself,  and,  conquering  the  disinclination,  she  said  that 
she  could  wait  till  Susannah  was  ready. 

A  delay  of  some  minutes  took  place  before  she  was  admitted. 
Susannah  was  to  be  brought  into  the  room,  and  seated  in  her 
proper  chair  ;  and  a  bustling  neighbour  was  to  be  dismissed  at 
a  back  door ;  and  two  children  sent  out  in  a  hurry,  with  some 
broken  playthings,  which  made  the  room  look  untidy  ;  but  the 
smile  that  brightened  up  the  blind  girPs  intelligent  face,  when 
at  last  Blanche  entered,  quite  rewarded  her  for  her  patience. 

"  And  you  are  not  well,  Susannah,  I  hear  V  said  Blanche, 
sitting  down  by  her  side,  and  taking  her  hand  ;  whilst  Susaniiah 
turned  to  her  with  a  look  of  gratitude,  which  did  not  need  the 
light  of  the  eyes  to  give  it  expression. 

"  I  have  not  been  very  well  this  week,  my  lady ;  I  believe  I 
go  out  rather  too  much.  But  I  have  had  a  little  nephew  stay- 
ing here  till  yesterday,  my  sister's  child,  who  hves  near  your 
ladyship's  aunt,  at  Senilhurst.  That  tempted  me  to  go  about 
with  him  and  the  other  children ;  for  he  is  a  sweet  little  fellow, 
and  I  never  liked, to  have  him  out  of  the  way.  We  went  over 
the  hill  to  the  village  one  day,  and  it  was  too  far ;  but  there  is 
not  much  the  matter." 

"I  wish  I  had  known  you  were  not  well,"  said  Blanche:  "I 
certainly  would  ha\'e  managed  to  see  you  before  ;  but  the  days 
pass  by,  and  there  are  so  manv  things  to  do.  1  should  have 
liked,  too,  to  see  your  little  nephew.     How  old  is  he  ?" 

Blanche  had  touched  the  right  chord  to  show  her  sympathy. 


]22  THE    earl's    daughter. 

Tlie  blind  o-iil  foi-o-ot  licr  trials,  whilst  in  the  pride  and  delight 
which  she  folt  in  her  sister's  child,  she  expatiated  upon  his  good- 
ness, and  aflection,  and  his  beanty  too ;  for  he  was  beautiful,  she 
declared.     She  quite  knew  what  he  was  like ;   but  a  heavy  sigh 

followed. 

"  Toor  Susannah  !"  said  Blanche  kindly  ;   "  it  must  be  a  great 

trial." 

The  blind  girl  recovered  herself  m  an  instant.  "  I  am  not 
going  to  complain,  my  lady.  It's  all  best,  I  know  ;  and  I  am 
cheerfid  enough  most  times." 

"  Only  out'of  spirits  to-day  from  not  being  well,  T  am  afraid," 
said  Blanche.     "  I  wish  I  could  stay  with  you  and  read  to  you." 

"  Ah !  if  you  could !  some  of  the  hymns  out  of  the  book  Miss 
Wentwovth  brought,  T  should  like.  They  seem  to  be  work  for 
me  afterwards  ;  because  when  I  sit  knitting,  I  can  remember 
them.     It  must  be  a  glorious  thing  to  make  verses !" 

Blanche  smiled  and  said,  "  You  told  me  one  day  you  had  tried 
to  make  verses  yourself,  Susannah.     I  dare  say  it  amuses  you." 

"  Yes,  sometimes,  in  my  poor  way  ;  it  makes  the  time  pass 
to  see  how  the  words  tit." 

"  And  verses  suit  some  thoughts  better  than  plain  words  do" 
continued  Blanche. 

"  Yes,  than  some  plain  words,  but  not  the  Bible  words." 

"  Many  of  them  are  really  verses  also,  though  not  quite  like 
ours,"  replied  Blanche.  "  Just  listen  to  these,"  and  taking  up  a 
Bible,  she  turned  to  the  passage  in  Isaiah  which  bears  us,  in 
thought,  from  this  evil  world  to"  behold  "  the  land  which  is  very 
far  off." 

Susannah  listened  in  the  attitude  of  fixed  attention,  and  when 
Blanche's  voice  ceased,  she  entreated  for  more.  "  It  was  so 
lovely,"  she  said  ;  "  it  was  like  rest — not  rest  though,  quite  ;  but 
moving  on  without  feeling  it." 

Blanche  could  not  refuse,  and  was  beginning  to  read  the  fifty- 
fifth  chapter,  when  the  earl,  unperceived,  came  within  sight  of 
the  door.  "  That  first  verse  is  a  verse  for  illness,  Susannah  ;  is 
it  not  ?"  said  Blanche,  pausing ;  "  for  the  hot,  weary  days,  when 
our  lips  are  parched  and  dry  ;  and  a  verse  also  for  our  sad  diiys, 
when  it  seems  that  we  have  no  pleasure  ;  when  we  sit  for  hours 
still  and  lonely,  and  seem  not  to  have  any  friends,  or  comforts, 
and  long  and  thirst  for  them  ?" 

"  lint  that  can  never  be  your  case,  my  lady,"  said  Susannah. 

Blanche  answered  quietly  :  "  The  lonely  feeling  comes  to  us 
all  alike,  at  times,  luid  so  does  the  comfort.     But  I  know  it  must 


THE    earl's    daughter.  123 

he  woi"se  fir  you  than  for  me  ;  God  has  given  me  a  great  many 
blessings." 

"  Yes,  so  many  to  love  yon,"  continued  Susannah.  "  I  can 
f;\ncy  that  better  than  all  the  grandeur." 

Blanche  could  not  repress  a  sigh  as  she  re])lied,  "  I  hope  there 
are  some  in  the  world  who  love  me,  certainly — love  me  very 
dearlv ;    but  that  love  is  not  enough  alone." 

"  No,  not  alone ;  I  know  it  is  not.  I  can  feel  it  is  not  some- 
times ;"  and  the  expression  of  the  poor  girl's  face  spoke  deep  awe 
and  demotion  ;  "  but  it  comes  for  a  time  ;  and  then  it  goes,  and 
it  is  all  dark — quite  dark,"  she  repeated,  in  a  voice  of  melan- 
choly, as  if  the  privation  from  which  she  suffered  had  given  her 
a  keener  insight  into  the  meaning  of  the  darkness  of  the  soul. 

Blanche  paused  for  a  few  instants  before  she  replied.  She 
turned  the  pages  of  the  Bible,  and  as  she  did  so  re[)eated,  in  an 
under  tone,  the  first  words  of  the  evening  prayer,  beginning, 
"  Lighten  our  darkness,  we  beseech  Thee." 

Susannah  caught  the  words  and  said  eagerly,  "  Does  it  mean 
darkness  in  our  hearts  ?" 

"  Yes,  in  one  sense  it  must,"  answered  Blanche  ;  "  and  night 
must  mean  the  night  of  this  life.     It  is  a  beautiful  prayer." 

"Lighten  our  darkness,"  repeated  Susannah,  thoughtfully. 
"  Ah,  my  lady ;  that  can  never  be  for  me." 

"  Not  in  this  world  perhaps,"  continued  Blanche  ;  "  but  the 
Bight  will  pass,  Susannah,  and  the  day  will  come — the  glorious 
day.  It  is  worth  waiting  for,  worth  suffering  and  striving  for, 
worth  patience." 

Susannah's  face  lighted  up  with  interest,  as  she  folded  her 
hands  together  with  an  air  of  devotion,  and  suffered  a  flower 
which  she  had  been  picking  to  pieces  to  fall  from  her  grasp. 

"  Just  think,"  pursued  Blanche,  "  what  it  will  be  like  ;  it  will 
be  light  with  no  shadow,  no  cloud,  no  power  of  fading  away — 
perfect  light  both  for  the  body  and  the  soul.  And  it  must  come ; 
though  tlie  hours  seem  ever  so  long,  ever  so  dreary,  it  must 
come.  Oh  !  Susannah,  it  will  be  light  for  us  both,  and  we  both 
promised  together  to  strive  for  it." 

Susannah  did  tiot  reply  ;  the  sympathy  was  beyond  her  com- 
prehension. Since  that  one  day  which  had  united  them  in  the 
same  act  of  self  dedication,  their  paths  had  parted  to  the  world's 
sight  far  asunder  ;  and  whilst  ])0verty  and  privation  were  her 
lot,  it  seemed  that  l)oth  life  and  death  must  be  light  to  the 
envied  heiress  of  Rutherford. 

Blanche  read  her  thoughts  with  wonderful  quickness,  an^I  a? 


124  THE      EARLS      DAUGHTER. 

her  voice  sank  and  faltered,  she  added,  "  You  will  not  think  it ; 
but  I  ha\e  my  moments  of  darkness  too — sadness,  loneliness, 
and  disappointment.  Even  for  me  earth  would  be  often  dreary 
if  it  were  my  all." 

The  earl's  couijh  at  that  instant  warned  her  that  he  was 
within  hearing.  She  looked  up  and  caught  his  eye.  His  look 
startled  her.  It  was  stern;  but  the  sternness  of  suflfering  rather 
tlran  of  anger,  lie  asked  only  if  she  was  ready,  took  no  notice 
cf  Susannah,  and  scarcely  allowing  Blanche  to  bid  a  hearty 
good-b'ye,  led  her  from  the  cottage. 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  some  distance.  Blanche  was 
nervous  and  uncomfortable.  She  dreaded  she  knew  not  what. 
As  they  stood  again  u])on  the  brow  of  the  steep  bank  they  had 
ascended  after  crossing  the  river,  and  which  commanded  a 
sjilendid  view  of  the  castle  and  park  of  Rutherford,  the  earl 
stopped  her  suddenly,  and  whilst  he  pointed  to  the  domain  which 
wiis  one  day  to  be  her  own,  said  in  a  calm  tone,  the  more  bitter 
from  its  effort  to  be  indifferent :  "  Then  I  have  failed,  Blanche, 
to  make  you  happy.     I  give  you  all  and  you  are  disappointed." 

For  a  moment  Blanche  was  quite  unable  to  answer.  The 
restraint  which  she  always  felt  when  with  her  father  now 
amounted  to  dread  ;  yet  she  summoned  resolution,  and  rej)lied, 
"  We  must  all  be  disappointed  sometimes,  I  suppose,  dear  papa  ; 
but  I  have  a  great  deal  to  make  me  happy  ;  and  I  am  very 
happy  generally.  I  would  not  vex  you  for  the  world,"  she 
added,  laying  her  hand  affectionately  upon  his  arm. 

The  earl  took  no  notice  of  the  caress,  and  after  continuing  his 
•walk  for  some  little  distance,  exclaimed,  as  if  giving  vent  to  a 
train  of  secret  reflections,  "  You  are  right,  Blanche;  it  must  be 
so.  I  was  a  fool  to  think  it  might  be  otherwise.  But  a  last 
hope,  a  last  wish,"  he  added,  in  a  lower  tone.  "  Folly  though 
it  may  be  to  cherish  it,  it  is  hard  to  give  it  up." 

"  If  it  is  a  wish  for  me,  papa,"  said  Blanche,  gaining  courage 
as  she  spoke,  "  I  think  you  may  be  satisfied  ;  for  I  desire  no 
change  outwardly." 

"  'J'hen  what  would  you  have  ?  Why  do  you  speak  of  disap- 
pointment r  he  inquired,  quickly. 

Blanche  evaded  a  dii-ect  reply,  and  -eplied,  "Our  sad  feelings 
generally  come  from  our  own  minds.  There  would  be  none,  I 
su])pose,  if  we  were  perfect." 

"  A  cloud  gathered  upon  Lord  Rutherford's  foce.  "  You 
must  be  careful,"  he  said.  "  That  morbid  tenderness  of  con- 
science  may  lead  you,  you  know  not  where." 


THE    earl's    daughter.  125 

"  1  hope  it  is  not  morbitl,"  exclaimed  Blanche ;  "  for  Mrs. 
Howard  did  not  call  it  so  :  she  understood  it,  and  gave  me 
sympathy." 

"  Sympathy  !"  said  the  earl,  in  an  under  tone  ;  and  Blanche 
repeated  the  word  with  an  unconscious  earnestness,  for  it 
expressed  the  true  extent  of  her  needs.  They  had  crossed  the 
bridge,  whic]j  was  divided  by  a  little  gate  from  the  castle 
oTounds.  The  earl  opened  the  gate  for  Blanche  to  pass,  but  he 
did  not  follow  her,  and  when  she  turned  to  look  for  him,  she  saw 
him  leanino-  over  it  with  his  face  buried  in  his  hands.  She 
walked  on  slowly  ;  her  heart  was  full  of  anxious,  unhappy 
thoughts,  and  the  sound  of  voices  on  the  terrace  above  jarred 
painfully  upon  her.  The  idea  of  possibly  meeting  strangers 
made  her  hesitate  to  ascend  the  bank,  and  whilst  waiting  unde- 
cidedly, the  earl  rejoined  her. 

"Not  that  way,"  he  said,  as  he  heard  Adelaide's  augh  ;  and 
he  went  on  before  her,  so  that  she  had  only  a  momentary 
glimpse  of  his  countenance ;  yet,  even  in  that  instant,  she  fan- 
cied it  looked  paler  than  usual.  They  turned  into  a  walk  at 
the  foot  of  the  bank  and  reached  the  castle  by  a  more  circuitous 
path,  which  led  to  one  of  the  side  wings.  A  low  door  at  the 
foot  of  the  turret  presented  itself  at  the  termination.  The  earl 
stopped  before  it. 

"  You  know  this  way,  of  course,"  he" said. 

"  Yes  ;  I  have  explored  it  once  or  twice,"  replied  Blanche. 

"You  think  you  know  it,"  he  continued,  and  a  ghastly  smile 
overspread  his  features.  "  But  I  doubt  if  you  do.  It  is  a  private 
entrance  to  your  mother's  apartments."  They  passed  on  and 
ascended  a  winding  staircase,  which  Blanche  had  only  noticed 
before  as  leading,  she  supposed,  to  the  servants'  rooms ;  and  in 
a  few  seconds  reached  a  small  lobby,  into  which  several  doors 
opened.  The  earl  took  a  key  from  his  pocket,  unlocked  the 
nearest  duor,  and  juUting  another  key  into  Blanche's  hand,  said, 
"  This  room  ofiens  behind  the  bed-room  which  you  have 
seen.  Y^'ou  will  find  letters  and  papers  in  the  cabinet.  Read 
them  at  your  leisure,  if  you  will."  lie  did  not  wait  for  a  rejily, 
but  turned  into'a  jjassage  communicating  with  the  other  part  of 
the  ca'^tlc. 

Blanche  scarcely  noticed  that  he  was  gone.  She  stood  in  her 
mother's  apartment,  her  place  of  solitude  and  retirement,  and  all 
consciousness  of  the  present  was  absorbed  in  feeling  for  her  who 
slumbered  with  the  dead.  The  room  was  small,  and  furnished 
very  simply  ;  the  chairs  were  without  car\-ing  or  ornament  ;  the 


12G  THE       EAKL'S      DAUGHTER: 

curtains  of  the  plainest  pattern;  the  carpet  %vovn  and  coloiirloR3 
from  as^o.  lUit  a  reading-stand  was  placed  in  the  oriel  window, 
and  u|ion  it  lay  a  lai-o;e  ojien  Bible  ;  and  a  low  hassock,  bearing 
the  marks  of  long  use,  was  before  it  ;  and  near,  upon  a  little 
table,  was  a  Prayer  Book  blotted  with  teiirs,  and  open  at  the 
service  for  tlie  Ihirialof  the  Dead;  and  Blanche,  with  but  one 
thought  in  her  mind,  cast  a  hasty  glance  around,  and  clasping 
luM-  hands  together,  threw  herself  upon  her  knees  to  pray,  where 
her  mother  must  liave  prayed,  for  pardon,  and  strength,  and 
acceptance  at  tlie  Last  Great  Day. 

A  few  moments  calmed  her  mind,  and  she  was  able  to 
examine  the  room  more  closely.  It  had  evidently  been  left 
untouelied  since  her  mother's  death,  for  the  walls  were  discoloured 
and  the  pai)er  was  damp ;  and  a  sense  of  desolation  came  over 
Blanche  as  she  tried  to  unlock  a  large  inlaid  cabinet  filling  a 
recess  at  the  lower  end,  which  at  first  resisted  her  strongest 
eilbrts  from  the  length  of  time  it  had  remained  unopened.  It 
was  the  only  mark  of  peculiar  refinement  or  expense  in  the 
room,  with  the  exception  of  two  small  pictures  upon  sacred  sub- 
jects, exquisite  in  design,  but  fttst  losing  their  beauty  from  the 
damp  that  had  gathered  over  them.  Blanche  succeeded  in 
unlocking  the  cabinet  after  some  further  etforts,  and  began  a 
hurried  inspection  of  its  contents.  Stray  articles  of  various  kinds 
were  collected  in  it,  of  little  value  in  themselves,  yet  put  aside 
carefully  and  marked.  Remembrances  they  were  of  absent 
friends  ;  ornaments  associated  with  happy  days  ;  things  which 
once  must  have  had  a  voice  and  language  for  the  heart ;  now, 
like  their  possessor,  silent  in  spirit  and  association.  And  there 
were  other  tritles,  more  painful  perhaps  to  look  upon  as  recalling 
the  daily  life  which  had  since  become  but  a  dream  :  pens,  sealing- 
wax,  scnips  of  paper,  and  memoranda,  the  items  which  form 
part  of  our  ordinary  existence,  and  which  could  tell  a  truer  tale 
of  life  than  the  most  valued  relics.  Blanche  fingered  over  these 
unconsciously.  They  brought  her  very  near  her  mother.  It 
was  as  if  but  a  few  hours  had  passed  since  she  had  been  seated 
at  her  dt-sk,  using  the  pen  encrusted  with  ink,  sealing,  perhaps, 
the  last  letter  which  she  ever  wrote  ;  or — tlie  fancy  flashed 
across  Blanche's  mind,  with  an  overpowering  rush  of  regret,  as 
she  caught  sight  of  an  infant's  coral  and  rattle — amusing  her- 
self with  the  child  who  was  destined  only  to  learn  the  value  of 
h.!r  care  by  its  loss.  But  time  was  passing  rapidly.  Blanche 
had  but  a  few  minutes  more  to  spare,  and,  shutting  the  drawer 
quickly,  she  opened  another  division  of  the  cabinet.     Manuscript 


THE    earl's    da  u  outer.  12 '3 

bouks,  lettLTs,  and  papers  filled  it,  and  days  would  be  required 
in  order  to  examine  them  thoroughly.  Blanche  took  the  book 
wliich  lay  nearest.  It  was  uU  of  old  accounts ;  she  threw  it 
aside,  and  opened  another,  it  was  the  same ;  another,  and  still 
another,  and  the  gong  sounded  for  dinner;  but  Blanche  could 
not  go.  Paper  after  paper,  book  after  book,  was  examined  ;  but 
nothing  was  found  which  could  throw  any  light  upon  her  mo- 
ther's j)ersoni(f  history  ;  until,  quite  underneath  the  i)ile,  she  laid 
her  hand  upon  a  packet  of  letters  and  a  journal  book,  marked 
*•  iS'ot  40  be  opened  till  after  my  death."  The  second  gong 
souc  led  as  she  hastily  unfastened  the  string  which  bound  them  ; 
and,  closing  the  cabinet,  she  took  up  the  packet,  locked  the  door 
of  the  chamber,  and  hurried  to  her  own  room  to  dress  as  quickly 
as  she  might,  and  appear  at  the  dinner  table,  if  possible,  as  gay 
and  liu'ht-hearted  as  was  her  wont. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

"  You  were  a  complete  truant  this  afternoon,  my  love,"  said 
Lady  Charlton,  addressing  Blanche,  as  she  threw  herself  into  an 
ai'm-chair  after  dinner,  professing  to  be  too  tired  either  to  read, 
write,  or  work.  "We  had  a  charming  drive,  and  I  should  have 
liked  to  introduce  you  to  my  friends  the  Cutlibert  Greys.  Very 
nice  people  they  are  in  their  way ;  a  little  too  fashionable,  per- 
haps, for  your  taste  ;  but  kind-hearted  and  extremely  clever.  I 
quite  thought,  when  Miss  Went  worth  joined  us,  that  you  would 
be  found  somewhere." 

Blanche  did  not  exactly  like  to  own  that  she  had  absented 
herself  on  purpose,  and  endeavoured  to  change  the  subject,  by 
asking  where  they  had  been  and  what  they  had  seen. 

" The  carriage  party  went  round  by  Staplehurst  Common, 
and  over  the  hill  to  the  old  monument  in  Lord  Ilervey's 
grounds,"  said  Eleanor;  ''but  Miss  Adelaide  Charlton  and  I 
di'ove  through  the  copse." 

"  Miss  Adelaide  did  not  go  with  you  anywhere  by  her  own 
2onsent,"  exclaimed  Adelaide,  coming  forward  from  the  window 
whore  she  had  been  standing. 

Eleanor  laughed,  and  promised  to  be  less  formal  another 
time  ;  "  Though  it  is  an  error  on  the  right  side,"  she  added. 

"  You  must  come  with  me  to  my  room.  I  want  to  show 
yo'j  that  sketch  we  were  speaking  ofj"  continued  Adelaide. 


128  THE      E  A  R  \. '  S      DAUGHTER. 

"  AA'li.'it  sketch  ?"  asked  Maude,  haughtily  and  quickly. 
Adelaide's  blush  was  not  perceived  in  the  twilight;  but  slu 
did  blush  as  slie  answered,  in  a  tone  of  aft'ected  indifference, 
"  (Ml  !  only  one  that  was  taken  for  me  abroad, — I  dare  say 
you  don't  remember." 

"  'I'liere  was  one  which  I  took,"  said  Maude  :  "  is  that  it  V 
"  No,  no,  Maude.     What  can  it  signify  to  you  ?"  and  calling 
to  Eleanor,  Adelaide  hastened  out  of  the  room. 

Blanche  watched  this  little  scene  with  surjirise,  and  a  feeling 
of  annoyance  which  she  could  not  account  for.  She  stood  in 
silence  fur  some  moments,  when  Maude's  hand  was  laid  upon 
lier  shoulder,  and  Maude's  deep  voice  of  satire  whispered  in  her 
ear,  "Jealous,  Blanche?"  Blanche  started;  but,  before  she 
could  reply,  Maude  had  glided  past  her,  and  she  was  left  alone 
with  her  aunt.  Slie  could  not  go  then,  although  she  longed  to 
do  so  ;  but  it  would  have  been  unkind,  when  they  had  scarcely 
met  all  day  ;  and  as  Lady  Charlton  drew  a  chair  towards  her, 
and  beckoning  to  Blanche  to  seat  herself  in  it,  said,  in  her  most 
winning  tone,  "  Now,  my  child,  we  will  have  a  few  minutes  of 
pleasure,"  Blanche  would  have  been  well  contented,  but  for  one 
reason,  to  remain. 

"  You  were  grave  at  dinner,  my  loA'e,  and  you  are  grave  now," 
began  Lady  Charlton.  "  What  is  there  to  make  you  so  ?  must 
I  not  know  ?" 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  show  that  I  was  grave,"  replied  Blanche. 

"But  you  cannot  hide  it,  dear  child  ;  not,  at  least,  from  n  e. 
Yo"i  are  graver  than  you  ought  to  be,  Blanche,  for  your  years." 

*"  It  is  my  disposition,  I  suppose,"  said  Blanche. 

"  No,  my  love,  I  assure  you  it  is  not  your  disposition.  You 
are  naturally  light-hearted  ;  but  you  suffer  yourself  to  broo  i  too 
much  upon  serious  subjects." 

"  That  cannot  be,  surely  ?"  exclaimed  Blanche. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  it  can.  You  would  say  so,  if  you  had  had  my 
experience.     Y"ou  are  very  like  your  mother,  Blanche." 

"  You  would  not  wish  to  see  me  different,  then,  would  you  V' 
asked  Blanche  almost  reproachfully. 

"  Not  in  many  things  ;  but,  in  tliat  one,  perhaps  I  miglit, 
Much  more  of  your  happiness  may  depend  upon  it  tlian  you 
are  at  all  aware  of." 

Lady  Charlton  spoke  so  energetically,  that  Blanche  looked  at 
her  with  astonishment.  "  Was  not  my  mother  happy  ?"  wa? 
the  question  which  trembled  on  her  lips ;  but  then,  as  ofter 
before,  she  dreaded  to  ask  it. 


THE    earl's    daughter.  129 

"  I  sliould  like  to  have  my  own  way  with  you,"  continued 
Lady  Chai-lton,  in  a  lio-hter  tone.  "  You  should  not  be  buried 
at  Rutherford  much  longer  if  I  had." 

"  Fapa  means  to  make  Rutherford  very  gay,"  said  Blanche. 

"Ah!  my  love,  he  means — I  quite  give  hira  credit  for  his 
meaning.  But  can  he  do  it  ?  I  know  him  better  than  you  do, 
Blanche.  There  is  not  a  man  of  greater  natural  talent,  or 
sreater  powt?rs  of  pleasing,  in  England  than  your  father, — but 
not  at  Rutherford  ;  there  is  a  weight  upon  him  here." 

"  yi'hat !  how  ?"  asked  Blanche,  quickl}-. 

Lady  Charlton  hesitated,  "  A  weight  I  called  it, — well !  it  is 
one  :  the  weight  of  the  place ;  the  old  waJls,  and  the  old  furni- 
ture; it  even  make^  me  melancholy.  Now  at  Senilhurst,  where 
I  would  take  you  if  I  could,  you  would  find  everything  difter- 
ent ;  a  cheerful  house,  lovely  grounds,  open  and  bright,  a  very 
pretty  pasture  country,  not  overpowering  in  beauty  :  you  know, 
or  at  least  you  will  know  by-and-by,  that  nothing  is  more 
f;itiguing  than  being  always  on  the  mental  tiptoe  of  admiration ; 
— evervthing  in  fact  to  enliven  you.  It  would  be  a  new 
phase  of  existence,  and  a  good  introduction  to  a  season  in 
London." 

Blanche  liked  the  description,  and  said  so  ;  and  Lady  Charl- 
ton was  excited  too,  and  gave  a  yet  more  glowing  picture  of  the 
enjovments  she  \\;ould  find  at  Senilhurst. 

"I  should  recommend  it  far  more  than  remaining  here,"  she 
said.  "  Th'ere  is  nothing  to  be  done  in  a  place  like  Rutherford. 
Entertainments — young  people's  entertainments  I  mean — are 
out  of  character.  And  you  would  not  have  the  change — I  see 
that  is  what  you  want — complete  change  of  scene." 

"  When  I  have  been  here  only  a  few  months  ?" 

"  That  does  not  signify,  my  love,"  replied  Lady  Charlton  ; 
"  it  is  the  effect  of  the  place  which  is  pressing  you  down.  If 
your  father  had  consulted  me,  he  never  would  have  brought 
you  here.  There  is  nothing  so  desirable  for  young  persons  as 
cheerfulness.  Grave  thoughts  and  anxieties  come  quite  soon 
enough,"  she  added,  with  that  sudden  transition  to  a  tone  of 
sorrowful  feeling,  which  always  gave  a  peculiar  interest  to  her 
conversation. 

"  I  should  have  no  village  at  Senilhurst ;  no  poor  people,  or 
Bchool,"  said  Blanche  :  "  that  I  should  regret." 

"  Yes  ;  but,  my  dear,  you  would  have  them.  You  should  see 
what  we  are  doing  there,  and  help  us.  Sir  Hugh  is  a  great 
man  for  education,  and  gives  me  carte  blanche  to  do  as  I  like 


1,^0  THE      EARL    S      DAUGHTER. 

wlion  we  are  at  home;  and  you  sliall  he.p  me.  My  own  g-irls 
unfortunately,  have  never  taken  to  that  sort  of  thing,  and  it  ha= 
been  a  great  vexation  to  me.  Ady  is  too  giddy,  and  Maude  is 
so  wrapt  up  in  German  metaphysics.  I  assure  you,  Blanche, 
vou  could  be  of  tlie  greatest  possible  use  to  me." 
'  "  And  poor  Eleanor,"  said  Blanche,  unconsciously  giving 
utterance  to  her  own  train  of  thought. 

*'  Yes,  she  would  miss  you ;  but,  my  dear,  you  cannot  be 
alwa\s  together." 

"  We  have  been  so  till  now,"  said  Blanche.  "  I  could  not 
bear  to  think  of  our  being  really  separated." 

"  No,  indeed,  I  can  quite  understand  that ;  you  must  be  just 
like  sisters :  but  the  being  parted  for  a  time  will  only  make  you 
enjoy  being  together  the  more  afterwards." 

"''  It  will  be  such  a  very  long  parting,"  observed  Blanche,  "  if 
I  am  to  (TO  to  London  in  the  spring;  unless — I  wonder  whether 
Mrs.  We^itworth  would  let  her  go  with  me  there." 

"  We  had  better  not  look  forward,  my  dear  child  ;  take  the 
day  as  it  comes.  Go  to  Senilhurst  with  me  now,  and  leave  the 
spring  to  itself." 

"  Mrs.  Wentworth  would  not  allow  it,  I  ara  afraid,"  said 
IManclie,  unheeding  the  warning  ;  "  and  I  could  never  make  up 
my  mind  to  ask  her,  if  I  thought  she  would  say  No." 

"  Mrs.  Wentworth's  strictness  would  come  in  the  way,  I 
supjiose,"  said  Lady  Charlton  :  "  but  never  mind,  my  love ; 
leave  it,  as  I  said,  and  remember  you  will  get  on  better  in 
London  than  you  would  elsewhere,  without  Miss  AVentworth. 
There  will  be  so  much  to  amuse  and  interest  you.  It  pleases 
me  immensely,  Blanche,"  she  added,  bending  forward  to  kiss 
her  niece's  forehead,  "  to  find  you  take  to  the  idea  so  kindly, 
as  the  poor  people  say ;  and  I  shall  tell  your  father  we  have 
settled  it." 

"  Oh  !  no,  no,"  began  Blanche  ;  but  Lady  Charlton  stopped 
her — "  My  dear,  you  don't  know  your  own  power,  and  you 
must  be  taught  it.  Believe  me,  you  have  but  to  say  the  word, 
and  horses  would  be  ordered  for  Senilhurst  to-night.  And  now 
you  have  quite  cheered  me,  and  I  must  exert  myself,  and  go 
and  see  after  Sir  Hugh.  Shall  we  have  tea  soon  ?  I  am  tired, 
and  must  go  to  bed  early  to-night ;  so,  if  you  can,  don't  let 
that  Mr.  Wentworth  keep  us  till  midnio-ht  sininno-  elees  and 
Irios." 

lilanche  rang  for  tea,  and  thought  it  might  be  possible  to 
snatch  a  few  moments  for  solitude  and  a  cursory  inspection  rf 


T  H  K      EARLS      DAUGHTER.  1  'U 

Ikt  precious  jiacket  of  papers,  before  it  was  brouglit  in. 
Ek:auor  and  Adelaide  were  crossing  the  gallery  as  she  went  up 
stairs.  She  heard  Eleanor  say,  in  a  laughing  voiix^,  "  I  shall 
certainly  tell  how  carefully  you  have  kept  your  treasure ;"  whilst 
Adelaide  replied,  by  a  faint  "  Oh  !  no,  no !  indeed  you  must 
not !"  which,  of  course,  meant  pray  do.  But  Blanche  did  not 
stop  to  interpret  words,  or  search  into  hiduen  meanings ;  only 
she  thought  ifstrange  that  Eleanor  should  have  found  so  much 
to  occupy  her  with  Adelaide  Charlton  as  to  leave  no  time 
for  herx 


CnABTER  XXIII. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  before  Blanche  went  to  her  room  for 
the  night.  Notwithstanding  Lady  Charlton's  injunctions,  music 
had  been  the  order  of  the  evening ;  and  music  is,  perhaps,  of 
all  amusements  the  most  enticing.  Lord  Rutherford  was 
particularly  silent,  and  seemed  quite  in  the  mood  for  enjoying 
a  gratitieation  which  could  be  obtained  without  effort ;  and  Sir 
Hugh,  who  generally  joined  the  party  for  an  hour  or  two  before 
he  went  to  bed.  was  charmed  with  the  opportunity  of  display- 
ing his  scientific  knowledge.  Duets,  trios,  glees,  and  quartettes 
succeeded  eacji  other  rapidly  ;  or  rather  the  quartettes  were  the 
beginning,  and  the  trios  the  finale:  for,  after  a  short  time, 
Maude,  whose  voice  was  of  the  greatest  consequence,  professed 
her  dv,termination  not  to  sing  another  note,  and  the  piano  was 
left  to  the  possession  of  Adelaide,  Eleanor,  and  Mr.  Wentworth  ; 
blanche  only  joining  them  occasionally.  Blanche  was  much 
occupied  with  her  own  thoughts ;  but  not  sufficiently  so  to 
render  her  unobservant  of  what  was  going  on  around.  Music 
was  a  delight  to  her,  and  in  general  such  an  evening  would  have 
been  a  great  treat ;  but  when  at  length  the  piano  was  closed, 
and  Eleanor  and  her  brother  departed,  she  felt  relieved  ;  as  if 
something  which  had  annoj'ed  and  offender  her  was  removed. 
\et  it  was  hardlo  say  what  that  something  was.  There  had 
been  nothing  to  find  fault  with  in  the  singing.  Nothing  in  the 
manner  or  behaviour  of  any  one  of  the  party  to  herself  Eleanor 
had  seemed  anxious  to  make  amends  for  any  apparent  neglect; 
and  Maude,  as  if  wishing  to  show  that  she  had  quite  forgotten 
their  difference  of  o()inion,  was  pailicularly  g(?ntle,  and  ])ointed 
out.  a  beautiful  jiassage  of  Egmont,  which  she  assured  her  she 


132  THE     EARLS      DAUGHTER. 

had  uiai-kt'd  bocause  it  was  so  entirely  unobjectionable.  Everj 
one  had  been  kind  to  her ;  yet  Blanche  was  fretted.  It  was  so 
strange,  she  said  to  herself,  that  she  should  be  so ;  so  odd, 
that  slie  ct)uld  not  bear  to  watch  Adelaide  ;  that  she  quite  dis- 
liked hearing  her  speak  to  Mr.  Weutworth.  She  was  really 
very  good-natured  and  sang  nicely,  and  with  a  good  deal  of 
s|)irit  and  taste  of  a  certain  kind.  But  it  must  be  the  taste, 
Blanche  thought,  which  jarred  upon  her.  It  was  too  marked 
— too  personal — and  there  was  a  system  of  amiable  quarrelling 
and  bantering  kept  up  between  Adelaide  and  Mr.  Wentworth 
in  the  intervals  between  thedill'erent  sot gs,  which  was  especially 
disagreeable  to  her.  She  could  not  help  hoping  that,  if  this 
stylo  of  intercourse  was  to  go  on,  Mr.  Wentworth  would  dis- 
continue his  visits. 

Thoughts  of  Adelaide,  however,  were  soon  dispelled  when 
the  door  of  Blanche's  apartment  was  closed  against  interrup- 
tion, and  she  was  at  length  left  at  liberty  fully  to  examine  her 
mother's  papers.  Late  though  it  was,  she  could  not  rest  satis- 
fied with  the  slight  glance  which  was  all  she  had  before  given 
them,  and  seizing  upon  the  journal,  as  being  the  most  likely  to 
atford  her  the  information  she  desired,  she  began  to  read  it. 

But  disappointment  was  destined  to  follow.  There  was  no 
record  of  passing  events  to  tell  the  secret  history  of  the  Coun- 
tess of  Rutherford,  aUliough  there  was  sufficient  to  show  that 
she  had  been  singularly  gifted  with  refined  taste  and  powers  of 
observation  chastened  by  deep  piety.  The  journal  was  not 
exactly  what  its  name  implied.  It  was  rather  a  book  of 
remarks,  thoughts,  extracts,  and  prayers.  To  the  writer  it  must 
have  bee  1  full  of  memories  and  suggestions;  for  there  were 
dates  and  private  marks,  bearing  reference,  apparently,  to  the 
seasons  at  which  the  observations  had  been  made  ;  and  there 
was  also  a  visible  change  in  the  style  of  writing  from  the  com- 
mencement to  the  end.  The  first  pages  showed  more  imagina- 
tion than  reflection  ;  more  of  hope  than  contentment.  The  las} 
were  almost  entirely  snort  extracts  from  devotional  writers 
expressive  of  great  mental  sufterings,  and  an  endeavour  to  b? 
resigned  under  affliction.  They  were  unconnected,  and  some 
times  abruptly  terminated,  the  handwriting  was  often  ille 
gible,  and  a  few  sentences  were  introduced,  apparently  withou/ 
meaning;  but  the  concluding  words,  written ■  several  montlu 
before  death  had  summoned  the  Countess  of  Rutherford  to  he- 
rest,  were  the  declaration  of  the  Psalmist :  "  I  will  patientlj 
ihuhi  alway,  and  will  praise  Thee  more  and  more." 


THE     EARLS      DAUGHTER.  133 

T>l:uiclie  r(>peated  the  verse  to  herself  again  and  again,  for  it 
seemed  sent  as  her  mother's  legacy — her  last  accents  of  advice 
and  encouragement.  But  there  was  nothing  strictly  j^ersonal 
in  all  this ;  and  she  turned  to  the  letters.  They  also  were,  for 
the  most  part,  unsatisfactor}^  being  chiefly  written  by  Ladv 
Rutherford's  friends,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  from  the  oail 
dated  in  the  first  year  of  his  married  life,  and  preserved  most 
carefully  in  a'little  silk  case.  These  were  kind  and  considerate  ; 
but  implied  frequent  long  absences,  and  gave  few  indications  of 
any  wish  to  be  at  Eutherford.  Engagements,  it  was  said,  kejit 
him  in  London,  lie  hoped  to  be  in  the  country  soon,  but 
could  not  promise  certainly ;  he  trusted  that  the  countess  was 
amusing  herself,  begged  her  to  deny  herself  no  gratification ; 
was  glad  to  hear  that  Mi-s.  Wentworth  was  with  her.  These, 
and  many  similar  wishes,  came  in  every  letter.  But  Blanche 
was  chilled  as  she  perused  them  ;  for  it  was  not  the  love  which 
would  have  been  shown  to  herself. 

Surely,  she  thought,  there  must  have  been  something  more. 
This  could  not  have  been  the  affection  fur  the  sake  of  which 
her  mother  had  left  home,  and  friends,  and  early  ties,  and 
pledged  herself,  by  the  most  solemn  and  binding  engagement, 
to  love,  and  honour,  and  obey,  until  death.  One  letter  of  the 
packet  was  still  unread,  and,  with  a  sickening  feeling  of  doubt 
and  disappointment,  Blanche  unfolded  it.  It  was  without  a 
direction,  and  in  her  mother's  handwriting,  addressed  to  a  dear 
friend. 

The  first  sentence  attracted  her  attention  by  a  painful  fascina- 
tion. "  Y^ou  tell  me  I  must  struggle  against  my  m-iserv ;  but 
do  you  know  what  yoti  require?  You  would  not  be  willingly 
unkind  ;  yet  by  such  words  you  raise  a  barrier  between  us, 
which  leaves  me  doubly  desolate.  Weary  and  heartsick  I  have 
Iwen  so  long,  that  sorrow  is  mv  natural  element,  and  hitherto  I 
have  borne  it  in  silence.  But  if  the  captive  sinks  under  the 
burden  of  caj)tivity,  who  shall  blame  him?  I  wander,  day  after 
day,  seeking  for  I  know  not  what — longing  for  rest  which  nevei 
comes  ;  listening  for — I  am  listening  now — but  yoti  will  find 
fault  with  me.  .  God  hears  me  ;  I  turn  to  Ilira.  He  will  hear 
my  child.  I  give  her  to  Him. — If  my  husband  comes — I  am 
dreaming — too  late."  And  those  few  sentences,  the  half-col- 
lected, half-unconscious  outpourings  of  a  broken  heart,  were  the 
Duly  indications  granted  to  Blanche  of  the  cause  of  that  grief 
which  had  preyed  upon  her  mother's  health,  and  it  seemed  toe 
evident,  at  length,  crushed  the  powers  of  her  mind. 


134  THE      EARL    S      DAUGHTER. 

The  morning  dawned  brilliantly  and  cloudlessly  upon  Ilutlier 
ford  Castle,  and  ;v.s  JManche  roused  herself  from  a  short  slum- 
ber, the  last  words  of  her  mother's  letter  flashed  upon  hei 
memory  before  she  could  recall  where  she  had  heard  them,  or 
why  they  should  be  accompanied  by  a  pang. 

The  recollection  came  up  but  too  soon,  and  with  it  the  con- 
viction that  her  most  painful  suspicions  were  verified — that  her 
mother's  life  had  been  rendered  miserable  by  neglect.  For,  in 
the  clear  thoughts  of  the  morning,  Blanche  could  put  together 
words,  and  incidents,  and  trifling  remarks,  which  had  fixed  them- 
selves in  her  memory  from  the  very  pain  they  had  caused,  and 
by  their  aid  find  a  clue  to  many  circumstances  hitherto  myste- 
rious. Long  before  the  household  had  risen  she  sat  up  in  her 
bed,  gazing  upon  the  straggling,  nearly  illegible,  characters 
which  showed  the  wretchedness  of  her  mother's  feelings,  almost 
as  much  as  the  words  themselves  ;  whilst  indignation  and  fear 
were  succeeded  by  bitter  self-reproach,  as  she  allowed  herself  to 
pity  one  parent  at  the  expense  of  her  afi"ection  for  another.  Iler 
mother  had  been  lonely  and  heartsick,  and  no  one  had  been 
near  to  comfort  her.  She  had  been  left  to  breathe  her  anxious 
wishes,  and  no  one  had  been  at  hand  to  gratify  them.  She  was 
ill  in  body  and  in  mind,  and  there  was  no  one  to  administer  to 
her  needs  or  calm  her  distracted  spirit.  Whose  fault  could  it 
have  been  ?  Blanche  rested  her  forehead  on  her  hand  to  still 
the  beating,  throbbing  pain,  which  was  settling  there.  It  was 
no  new  thought  that  her  father  was  proud  and  worldly,  and  had 
no  sympathy  with  her  highest  hopes.  Day  by  day  the  assurance 
had  become  "  doubly  sure  ;"  and  the  gulf  between  them  more 
widely  marked.  But  could  he  also  be  cold  and  neglectful ;  he, 
who  was  so  devoted  to  his  child's  happiness,  whose  every  thought 
wai  centred  in  her  gratification,  whose  eagerness  to  indulge  was 
even  painful  and  burdensome?  Alas!  for  that  most  bitter  of 
all  doubts,  which  bids  us  look  with  suspicion  on  those  whom 
duty  bids  us  reverence. 

When  the  party  assembled  at  the  breakfast-table  tho 
jialo  face  of  Lady  Blanche  excited  general  notice.  The  earl 
looked  at  her  with  uneasy  interest,  but  only  asked  if  she  had 
slept  well ;  whilst  Lady  Charlton  took  occasion  to  remark  that 
it  was  evident  the  place  did  not  agree  with  her  ;  die  had  thought 
so  for  a  long  time  but  did  not  like  to  say  so.  "  Senilhur.-t 
would  do  her  a  great  deal  of  good,  if  you  would  but  think  so," 
ihe  added,  addressing  Lord  Rutherford. 

"Senilhurst  will  do  very  well,  if  Blanche  likes  it,"  he  replied* 
"but  I  very  much  doubt  if  she  does." 


THE      EARLS      DAUGHTER.  135 

Blanclie  smiled  faintly,  unci  said  she  should  miss  many  things 
iit  Riithei'ford  extremely. 

"  ]3ut,  my  love,"  and  Lady  Charlton  turned  round  with  a 
sparkling  eye  ;  "it  was  only  last  night  you  entirely  entered  into 
ni}^  views,  and  quite  enjoyed  the  idea ;  you  really  are  very  in- 
comprehensible." 

"  I  don't  mych  care,"  began  Blanche ;  but  she  stopped,  fur 
she  knew  that  inditiercnce  would  vex  ever}^  one. 

"  You  don't  care,  my  dear  ?  I  wish  I  could  understand  you. 
I  wish  I  knew  wdiat  you  were  aiming  at." 

"She  is  not  aiming  at  anything,"  said  the  earl,  coolly.  "  She 
likes  staying  at  Rutherford  ;  and,  if  so,  at  Rutherford  we  wiU 
stay." 

Lady  Charlton  compressed  her  lips  and  went  on  with  her 
breakfast.  Soon  after  Adelaide  came  into  the  room.  Lady 
Charlton  looked  up,  and  said,  "  You  are  very  late.  Is  your 
father  dressed  f 

"  I  don't  know,"  was  Adelaide's  careless  reply,  as  if  the  ques- 
tion did  not  at  all  concern  her. 

"  I  must  know.  I  wonder  what  Pearson  has  been  about ; 
pray  inquire,"  continued  Lady  Charlton  to  one  of  the  servants. 

"  Pearson  has  grown  extremely  absurd  of  late,"  she  added  to 
herself;  "he  never  can  be  in  time;  and  Sir  Ilu'di  won't  bear 
it." 

Pearson  ma*le  his  a])pearance,  and  Avas  immediatelv  accosted 
with,  "  Sir  Hugh  is  not  at  breakfast,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  lady  ;  at  breakfast,  and  quite  enjoying  it.  lie  hopes 
to  see  your  ladyship  as  soon  as  is  convenient." 

"  Oh  I"  and  as  Pearson  withdrew,  Lady  Charlton  gave  a 
Blight  ])ush  to  her  plate,  and  declared  she  had  no  ajipetite,  and 
really  felt  quite  unwell.  As  it  was  such  a  beautiful  morning, 
she  thought  she  should  hke  a  little  stroll  on  the  terrace  for  the 
sake  of  the  air. 

Blanche  half  rose  to  accompany  her,  or  at  least  to  ask  if  she 
could  be  of  any  assistance  ;  but  Lady  Charlton  motioned  to  her 
to  remain,  and  murmuring  a  few  thanks  went  away.  Silence 
followed.  Lord  Rutherford  took  up  a  newspaper,  and  Adelaide 
began  reading  a  letter;  whilst  Maude  occupied  herself  in  study- 
ing a  large  historical  picture  th;it  hung  opposite  to  her;  and 
Blanche  tried  to  finish  a  breakfast  for  which  she  had  not  any 
appetite.  Maude  looked  at  her  from  time  to  time  with  an  ex 
pre-ssion  of  greater  gentleness  in  her  features  than  they  seemed 
naturally  furmed  to  wear  ;  and  as  Adelaide  lingered,  according 


J  3C  THE    earl's    i;  a  u  g  h  t  e  r  . 

to  hor  custom,  tasting  first  one  thing  and  then  another,  sighing 
because  tlie  tea  Avas  cold,  and  ordering  coffee  which,  when  it 
came,  slie  did  not  wish  for,  Maude  dechired  herself  ashamed  of 
wasting  so  much  time,  and  proposed  to  Blanche  to  leave  her. 

"Yes,  do  go;  never  mind  me,"  exclaimed  Adelaide  good- 
naturedlv  ;  "  1  have  quantities  of  amusement — the  most  charm- 
iu'if  letter  you  ever  read,  Maude,  from  Caroline  Grey.  She  is 
so  sorry  not  to  be  in  the  neighbourhood,  with  her  mother  and 
sister,  now  we  are  here."  Maude's  lip  curled :  "  I  leave  you 
to  vour  friend  very  willingly,"  she  said,  "  so  long  as  I  am  not 
required  to  undergo  the  penance  of  reading  what  she  writes." 

*'  Ah,  well !  you  don't  like  her ;  but  that  I  can't  help. 
Blanche,  Caroline  Grey  would  just  suit  you  ;  you  shall  know  her 
some  day." 

"  And  hate  her,  as  I  do,"  whispered  Maude,  putting  her  arm 
within  that  of  Blanche,  and  drawing  her  out  of  the  room. 

"  Caroline  Grey  is  Adelaide's  dearest  weakness,"  she  added, 
laughing,  as  she  led  Blanche  to  the  library.  "  Almost  more 
silly  than  herself,  if  that  were  possible.  But  we  won't  talk 
about  her.  What  have  you  done,  Blanche,  to  put  my  mother 
in  such  a  ferment  ?" 

"  I !"  exclaimed  Blanche.     "  Ls  my  aunt  vexed  ?" 

"My  dear  child,  what  a  perfect  innocent  you  are  !  Vexed  ? — 
She  is  angry,  furious." 

"  Oh  !  no,  surely." 

"  Hark  !  Here  she  comes  !"  said  Maude,  and  Lady  Charlton 
walked  into  the  room,  inquired  for  some  sealing-wax — asked 
Maude  where  Adelaide  was,  and,  after  a  formal  "  Better,  thank 
you,"  in  reply  to  Blanche's  inquiry  of  how  she  felt,  again 
departed. 

"  I  am  afraid  she  is  annoyed,"  said  Blanche,  much  perplexed. 

"  Only  ann  jyed  !"  said  Maude.  "  Well,  we  must  hope  it  may 
oe  nothing  more.  But  what  concerns  me  most,  Blanche,  is 
yourself.  You  look  wofuUy  pale  this  morning,  and  I  must  know 
the  reason  why  ?" 

"  I  slept  badly,"  said  Blanche. 

"  But  why  ?  Slee]iing  badly  is  never  an  ultimate  cause,  and 
my  mind  cannot  rest  till  it  has  reached  one." 

_"  I  did  sleep  badly  :  but  I  cannot  tell  you  the  reason  why,'' 
said  Blanche,  quietly. 

"  But  I  must  know.  I  must  insist  upon  knowing.  Had  it 
anything  to  do  with  our  stupid  afternoon,  yesterday?  Did  I  bore 
,'ou  by  my  German  nonsense  2" 


THE    earl's    daughter.  137 

"  Oh  !  no,  no ;  I  scarcely  Ihouglit  about  it." 

"Not  coniiilimentary  ;  one  would  rather  be  hated  than  for- 
crotten.  Still  I  fortiive  you.  But  the  pale  looks  and  the  bad 
niiiht, — I  shall  go  backwards,  like  the  woiuk^rFul  history  of  the 
house  that  Jack  built,  till  I  find  the  cause." 

Blanche's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  Maude's  manner  altered 
directly.        ^ 

"There  is  something  more  in  this  than  a  little  fever,  or  a  fit 
of  worj;y,"  she  exclaimed.  "  Blanche  !  I  wish  I  could  make  you 
believe  that  I  am  not  quite  such  a  heathenish  savage  as  I  appear." 

"  Only  yourself  would  call  you  so,"  said  Blanche,  half  laugh- 
ing. 

"  No.  But  a  great  many  would  think  me  so.  And  yet,  1 
think,  yes  ;  I  am  sure,"  she  continued,  more  seriously  ;  "  that  I 
could  be  a  friend — a  true  friend — a  better  friend  to  you  than 
most  people.     Blanche,  why  do  you  feel  yourself  so  lonely  ?" 

Blanche  regarded  her  with  a  smile  of  surprise  ;  and  Maude 
went  on.  "  You  are  lonely,  though  you  may  not  choose  to  own 
it ;  you  have  no  one  to  sympathize  with  you,  though  so  many 
love  you  ;  and  you  have  fancies,  and  worries,  and  brooding 
thoughts.     I  see  it  constantly." 

"  Are  you  sure  you  are  not  speaking  of  yourself  V  asked 
Blanche. 

"  Never  mind  me  ;  T  am  used  to  it.  I  am  older,  have  seen 
more  of  the  -world,  and  have  learnt  to  live  in  it  by  myself.  But 
you  have  not.  And  you  are  not  formed  to  battle  with  it  alone, 
as  I  am." 

"  It  may  be  the  lesson  I  ara  to  learn,"  said  Blanche,  gravely. 

"  No,  no,"  exclaimed  Mauda ;  "  that  is  one  of  your  narrow 
views.  We  choose  our  own  lessons,  and  shape  our  own  lives. 
They  do  so,  at  least,  who  are  worth  anything.  Determine  that 
you  will  not  be  lonely, — that  you  vvill  have  companionship  and 
sympathy,  and  you  will  find  it." 

"  Have  you  done  so  ?"  asked  Blanche, 

"  No ;  but  it  is  because  I  do  not  need  it — because  I  would 
rather  stem  the  torrent  of  life's  troubles  bv  mv  own  unassisted 
j)ovver  ;  Init  you  are  formed  to  lean  upon  oi-hers  and  cling  to 
them.  Why  nmst  you  condemn  yourself  to  reserve  and  soli- 
lude  ?" 

"  I  do  not  condemn  myself,"  replied  Blanche.  "  I  e'^joy 
sympathy  when  I  can  have  it ;  but  1  do  not  need  i*  .-^s  much  as 
you  imagine  :  or  rather,"  and  her  colour  slightly  deeuened  ai 
the  spoke,  "  I  have  more  than  I  can  explain." 


153  T  II  K      EARLS     D  A  L  G  II  T  E  R  . 

iA[;uuli'  tunioil  :i\v:iy  as  if  annoyed. 

"  Am  1  unkind  ?"  said  Blanche,  following  her. 

"  liicoini)r(.'hensiblo,  merely,"  was  Maude's  cold  reply  ;  "  but 
[  have  no  wish  whatever  to  force  your  confidence.  I  might 
have  known,  from  our  conversation  yesterday,  how  little  our 
ideas  accord."  And  yet,  as  she  said  this,  Maude  lingered  in  the 
room,  evidently  unwilling  to  break  ofi'  the  conversation. 

"  You  are  very  kind  to  me,  dear  Maude,"  said  Blanche, 
gently.  "I  wish  I  could  make  you  believe  that  I  really  am 
obliged ;  perhaps,  by  and  by,  you  will,  when  we  understand 
each  other  ;  for,  in  some  things,  I  think  we  agree  more  than  we 
know.  Butj  as  regards  confidence,  I  have  none  that  I  should 
feel  it  right  to  give  to  any  one,  except  Mrs.  Howard,  or,  perhaps, 
my  aunt." 

"  Mamma !"  exclaimed  Maude.     "  Confidence  to  her  !" 

"  I  don't  mean  confidence,  exactly,"  replied  Blanche.  '  But 
there  are  some  things  which  she  could  tell  me,  which  would  be 
a  comfort  to  me  ;  though  I  could  not  ask  her  about  them  just 
now." 

"  No  ; — certainly,"  answered  Maude,  with  a  satirical  laugh. 
"  Fond  though  she  is  of  you,I  would  not  advise  you  to  put  your- 
eclf  in  her  way  again,  for  some  hours  at  least." 

Blanche  looked  distressed,  and  said  she  was  scarcely  aware 
what  she  had  done,  though  she  supposed  it  was  being  so 
foolishly  changeable,  as  to  going  to  Senilhurst. 

"  I  suppose  it  was  that  :  but  leave  her  to  herself ;  she  will 
come  round  again ;  and  she  will  bear  a  great  deal  from  you." 

"  I  am  glad  she  is  fond  of  me,"  said  Blanche  ;  though  she 
said  it  with  an  uncomfortable  feeling  of  distrust  and  disappoint- 
ment. 

"  Yes  !  mamma  is  always  fond  of  persons  she  is  proud  of." 

Blanche's  face  showed  th?.t  she  was  puzzled  ;  and  Maude 
continued,  laughingly,  "  Now,  my  dear  Blanche,  there  is  a  cer- 
tain limit  to  simplicity,  beyond  which  it  becomes  silliness.  Y^'ou 
really  are  much  too  sensible  not  to  know  that  you  possess  ;» 
great  deal  of  which  the  world  is  proud — rank,  wealth,  beauty. 
Nay ;  don't  shrink  from  the  truth,"  she  added,  as  Blanche  suf- 
fered an  expression  of  distaste  to  escape  her  lips.  "  I  am 
not  flattering  you  ;  I  am  not  a  man  paying  court  to  you  ;  if  I 
Wf  re,  I  should  be  wiser  than  to  praise  you  to  your  face.  But  I 
long  to  see  you  make  the  most  of  yourself  ;  and  I  am  sure  no 
Dne  can  ever  do  that  who  has  not  a  thorough  appreciation  of  his 
or   her  peculiar  advantages.     So  you  must  understand    that 


THE      EARLS      DAUGHTER.  139 

mamma  is  proud  of  you ;  and,  as  a  consequence,  fond  of  you  ; 
and  if  you  choose  to  go  and  confide  your  griefs  to  lier,  don't  lot 
me  prevent  you.     Onlv,  I  should  have  imagined — " 

"  What  ?" 

Maude  thought  for  a  moment,  and  then  answered,  "  I  should 
have  thought  that  your  taste  might  have  led  you  in  a  different 
direction."     -^ 

"It  is  not  a  question  of  taste,"  replied  Blanche.  "  If  I  did 
not  loi»e  ray  aunt,  she  would  still  be  the  only  person  to  help  me 
now  ;  unless,  perhaps,  Mrs.  Wentworth  could." 

"  Then  go  to  Mrs.  Wentworth,"  exclaimed  Maude,  hastily. 
"  Cold,  though  she  is,  stitF,  unbending, — go  to  her,  Blanche. 
You  wonder  at  me,  and  I  shock  you  ;  but  I  am  not  thinking  of 
my  mother,  as  my  mother — only  as  suiting  you.  Mrs. 
Wentworth  will  tell  you  more  of  what  you  wish  to  know  than 
mamma  will,"  she  added,  fixing  her  large  piercing  eyes  upon 
Blanche,  as  if  she  knew  her  inmost  heart. 

"  But  I  cannot  go  to  Mrs.  Wentworth  ;  I  cannot  learn  from 
one  who  is  not  a  member  of  my  famih' — " 

"  The  secrets  of  that  fiimily,"  added  Maude,  quietly.  "  Sup- 
pose I  could  tell  them,  Blanche  ?" 

"  Do  you  know  ?  Can  you  tell  ?"  exclaimed  Blanche,  and  the 
flint  shade  of  colour  in  her  cheeks  went  and  came  rapidly. 

"  If  I  cannot  tell  myself,  I  might  learn,"  pursued  Maude. 

Blanche  shook  her  head  in  disappointment.  "  No  ;  you  are 
Very  kind,  very  good  ;  but  it  will  not  do." 

"  And  there  is  to  be  no  confidence  between  us,  then  ?"  said 
Maude. 

Blanche  did  not  answer.  They  had  been  standing  together 
at  the  window,  and  as  she  was  about  to  turn  away  from  it, 
Maude  laid  a  detaining  hand  upon  her  arm,  and  pointing  to  a 
bird  which  was  winging  its  flight  far  into  the  blue  sky,  said,  "  I 
had  a  dream  of  two  minds  soaring  together,  leaving  the  delu- 
sions of  this  paltry  world  behind  them,  and  seeking  a  higher 
life  in  the  glorious  light  of  truth." 

Blanche  sighed. 

"  Must  it  be  a  dream  ?"  said  Maude,  almost  tenderly. 

]'>lanche  raised  her  eyes  timidly  to  her  cousin's  face,  as  she 
•eplied  unhesitatingly,  "  There  is  a  false  light  as  well  as  a  true 
one.  Before  we  soar  together,  Maude,  we  must  know  which  we 
are  seeking." 

"  Truth,"  answered  Maude.  "  In  other  words,  spiritual,  intel- 
lectual beauty,  which  is  another  name  for  truth." 


140  THE      EARLS      DAUGHTER. 

]>l;uiolie  passed  lier  hand  over  her  eyes,  and  said,  with  a  faint 
i-inile,  "I  caiinut  talk  ;is  we  did  yesterday — my  head  aches  too 
imioh  ;  1  cannot  fix  my  thouglits." 

There  was  a  tone  of  indescribable  depression  and  weariness  in 
her  voice.  Maude  lool^ed  at  her  compassionately,  and  kissed 
her,  and  said  she  would  not  tease  her  ;  and  the  sympathy  over- 
came the  self-command  which  Blanche  had  been  exercising,  and 
larii:o  tears  filled  her  eyes,  and  rolled  down  her  cheeks. 

Maude  made  her  sit  down.  '•  Can't  I  help  you  ?"  shs  said. 
"  Are  you  quite  sure  ?" 

"  Quite  sure ;  unless  you  know."  She  thought  for  i  few 
moments,  and  then  added,  "  Does  my  aunt  ever  talk  lo  you 
about  herself  f 

"  About  past  days  ?"  said  Maude.  "  Yes,  sometimes  ;  but  not 
often." 

"  Not  of  interesting  things  ;  things  which  would  interest  me  ?" 
and  Blanche  looked  up  imploringly. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Maude  doubtfully  ;  "  that  is,  they  would 
interest  you  in  a  way." 

"  But  does  she  ever  mention  my  mother  ?"  The  last  words 
were  uttered  with  painful  unwillingness,  and  when  they  were 
spoken  Blanche  sat  with  her  hands  tightly  clasped  together,  as 
with  an  effort  to  conceal  the  working  of  some  keen  emotion. 

The  perplexed  expression  of  Maude's  face  increased  as  she 
looked  at  her.  "  What  is  it  that  troubles  you,  Blanche  ?"  she 
said.  "  Surely  nothing  connected  with  days  so  long  gone  by  ; 
sorrows  that  have  so  long  ceased  ?" 

"  Then  she  was  sorrowful ;  she  was  miserable,"  exclaimed 
Blanche,  psing  impetuously.  "  Oh,  Maude,  in  pity  tell  me  what 
you  know." 

"  Sorrowful,  miserable,"  repeated  INIaude  slowly.  "  One  must 
always  fear  it  in  such  cases  ;  but  it  may  have  been  better  than 
we  think." 

Blanche  grasped  her  cousin's  hand,  and  the  brightness  of  her 
eye  was  terrible  in  its  eagerness. 

"  There  are  sadder  moments  of  sanity  tlian  of  delusion,"  con- 
tinued Maude,  gently  ;  and  Blanche's  fingers  relaxed  their  grasp, 
and  she  fell  back  in  her  chair  nearly  fainting,  Maude  was  not  in  the 
leas.t  hurried  out  of  her  usual  steadiness  of  manner ;  she  sprinkled 
some  water  on  her  cousin's  forehead  from  a  flower-glass  near, 
and  when  Blanche  a  little  rexaved,  and  uttered  mournfully  the 
word  "delusion,"  answered,  without  any  reference  to  her 
'.ransient  weakness,  "  I  thought  you  knew  it,  dear." 


THE    earl's    daughter.  141 

"  No,  no  ;  they  kept  it  from  me.     But  tell  me  now,  quickly.^ 

"Only  delusion,"  answered  Maude;  "nothing  more.  No- 
thing to  distress  you,  Blanche.  Pray  believe  me,"  she  added, 
as  Blanche's  eyes  again  tilled  with  tears. 

"  But  what  delus'ion  ?  of  what  kind  ?"  asked  Blanche,  faintly. 

"Quiet  melancholy;  only  that,  I  assure  you;  nothing  really 
hereditary  to.ti'ighten  you." 

Blanche  scarcely  seemed  to  hear  this  comfort ;  she  only  said 
in  repl^  "  Was  she  alone  P 

"Yes,  sometimes,  when  it  could  not  be  helped,"  replied 
Maude,  with  evident  hesitation. 

"  Quite  alone  ;  sorrowful,  miserable,"  murmured  Blanche,  md 
she  leant  her  head  upon  her  hand,  and  cried  bitterly. 

"  I  will  tell  you  all  I  know,"  said  Maude.  "  She  was  not 
st/ong  naturally,  mamma  says ;  and  she  was  a  great  deal  by 
herself;  and  she  must  have  been  like  you,  Blanche,  fond  of 
brooding  over  her  own  fancies,  for  they  never  could  persuade 
her  to  see  people  and  go  out,  except  occasionally,  when  Lord 
Kutherford  was  here." 

"  And  she  went  out  then  ?  she  was  happy  then  2"  exclaimed 
Blanche,  raising  her  head  quickly. 

"  Yes,  she  went  out  a  little  to  j)lease  him,"  continued  Maude. 
"  But  you  know  he  was  absent  a  great  deal,  especially  at  last." 

Blanche's  head  sank  despondingly.  Maude's  quick  eye 
remarked  the-change,  but  she  went  on — "  I  do  not  think  there 
wa.s  really  anything  to  distress  you  so  much ;  of  course,  she  had 
every  comfort,  and  her  mind" — she  sto])ped,  considering  how  to 
ajijiroach  the  subject  in  the  way  least  likely  to  give  pain ;  but 
Blanche  made  a  slight  motion  of  the  hand,  and  said,  "  I  can 
bear  it,"  and  Maude  continued,  in  a  rather  hurried  voice,  "  It 
w:ts  not  so  very  dreadful ;  not  common  insanity.  She  was  very 
quiet,  and  gentle,  and  good.  Mamma  used  to  come  and  see 
hrr  very  often,  and  for  a  long  time  people  said  it  was  only 
melancholy,  it  came  on  so  gradually.  She  used  to  write  a  great 
deal,  I  believe ;  but  almost  all  her  papers  were  destroyed  when 
Lurd  Uutherfurd  came  back  from  abroad." 

"  But  he  was  with  her  ;  quite  at  the  last  ?"  said  Blanche,  in  a 
low  voice. 

"  No  ;  he  was  not  here  in  time.  It  was  very  unfortunate  ;  for 
the  longing  to  see  him  was  so  great,  it  was  worse  than  any- 
ihinp^.  But  Blanche,  my  dear,  I  am  doing  you  harm,"  she  said, 
oh^orving  her  cousin's  look  of  intense  suffering. 

**  No,  no  ;  go  on  ;"  was  all  that  Blanche  ventured  to  utter. 


142  THE    earl's    daughter, 

"  There  is  not  much  besides  to  tell,"  answered  Maude.  "  But 
ind(;ed,  Blanche,  I  am  very  anxious  you  should  not  think  it  at 
all  worse  than  it  really  was.  She  was  ill  and  depressed  very 
long-  before  it  was  thought  necessary  to  have  any  one  with  her  ; 
a  companion,"  she  added,  as  Blanche  slightly  shuddered. 
"And,  even  to  the  very  last,  there  were  intervals  when  she 
knew  everything  and  everybody  quite  well  ;  and  the  only  way 
in  which  they  discovered  when  the  attacks  were  coming  ou 
worse,  was  that  she  would  then  kneel  for  hours  together  in  her 
room,  repeating  portions  of  the  Burial  Service." 

Blanche  put  her  hand  before  her  eyes  to  hide  che  light  of  the 
glorious  sun.  Many  moments  elapsed  before  she  spoke.  Then 
she  rose  from  her  seat,  and  kissed  Maude,  and  said,  "  Thank 
you  ;  you  have  been  very  kind  ;  you  must  not  say  that  you  have 
told  me,"  and  walked  slowly  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Mrs.  Wentworth  was  sitting  alone  in  her  little  room  :  the 
post  was  just  come  in,  and  she  was  busied  in  answering  her 
letters.  She  looked  particularly  old  that  morning  ;  perhaps  her 
dress  was  unbecoming — perhaps  her  letters  had  been  annoying ; 
at  any  rate,  her  care-worn  expression  was  sufficient  to  attract 
observation ;  and  as  Dr.  Wentworth  passed  the  window,  and 
stojiped  to  say  a  few  cheerful  words,  it  made  him  delay  the 
business  he  was  bent  upon,  and  re-enter  the  house.  "  There  is 
nothing  amiss  in  them  ;  is  there,  my  love  ?"  he  inquired,  taking 
up  the  letters  on  the  table.     "  I  did  not  read  them  through." 

"  Oh,  no  !  nothing ;  they  are  mere  chit-chat ;  not  of  any  con- 
sequence.    Why  should  you  ask  ?" 

"  Vou  seemed  uncomfortable — that  is  all ;  but  if  there  is 
nothing  the  matter,  well  and  good.  It  must  be  the  cap,  I  think, 
which  makes  you  look  different.  I  think  I  tdd  you  I  was  going 
to  the  Union  this  morning." 

"  Yes ;  you  will  be  back  to  dinner,  I  suppose,  at  six  o'clock." 

"  Say  half-past ;  we  shall  be  more  punctual.  Good  b'ye ;" 
and  Dr.  Wentworth  departed. 

Mrs.  Wentworth  leant  back  in  her  chair,  in  a  reverie,  a  strange 
and  painful  one.  It  carried  her  back  many  years,  to  that  early 
romance  of  first  love — that  entire  sympathy  of  thought  and 
ftioling,  which  she  had  imagined  was  to  last  undiminished  for 


THE    earl's    daughter.  143 

ever.  Dr.  Wentworth  was  a  good  man,  an  earnest  man :  liia 
heart  was  given  to  his  duties,  first ;  his  family  afterwards,  llis 
wife  did  not  wish  it  should  be  otherwise ;  but  she  did  not  re- 
semble him.  The  romance  of  her  early  years  had  not,  like  his, 
been  extinguished  by  the  constant  jiressure  of  parochial  cares. 
She  was  poetical,  enthusiastic  still,  in  secret.  She  had,  as  it 
were,  two  cliaracters — the  one  of  great  imagination,  the  other 
of  strong  common  sense.  Her  husband's  affections  had  been 
won  J^y  the  former ;  they  were  retained  by  the  latter.  Imagi- 
nation, with  him,  had  been  the  ami^sement  of  boyhood,  with 
her,  it  was  the  present  beauty  of  life :  and  if  Mrs.  Wentworth 
had  been  endued  with  a  less  portion  of  right  feeling  and  self- 
command,  the  discovery  of  this  essential  difference  in  their 
characters  might  have  been  made  at  the  risk  of  the  happiness 
of  both.  As  it  was,  it  only  served  to  throw  her  back  into  her- 
self, to  chill  the  outward  show  of  enthusiasm,  and  to  concentrate 
all  the  intensity  of  her  hopes  and  interests  upon  her  children. 
Peifect  respect,  and  a  true,  though  unimpassioned,  love,  were 
still  her  husband's ;  but  she  had  learnt  to  live  her  inward  life 
without  him  ;  and  whilst  sharing  his  pleasures,  and  sympathising 
in  his  sorrows,  she  concealed,  as  by  a  natural  instinct,  those 
keener,  more  sensitive  feelings,  which  he  would  not  have  un- 
derstood. There  were  times  when  this  sense  of  uncongeniality 
was  very  oppressive.  When  Mi-s.  Wentworth  thought  of  her 
children,  she  most  felt  the  absence  of  that  perfect  sympathj', 
which  would  have  supported  and  soothed  her  under  the 
anxieties  they  occasioned.  It  was  a  fear  for  them  which  was 
now  pressing  heavily  upon  her  spirits  ;  that  boding,  shadowy 
fear  which  cannot  be  combated,  because  it  assumes  no  tangible 
form.  She  indulged  the  reverie  of  the  past  for  a  few  moments 
only.  It  was  dangerous  to  her  peace,  and  contrary  to  her  strict 
conscientiousness ;  but,  as  it  faded  away,  there  rose  up  the  long- 
vista  of  futurity,  and  who  can  blame  a  mother's  momentary 
longing  to  pierce  into  its  secrets  ?  It  is  so  hard  to  persuade 
oui  selves  that  the  children  whom  we  love  so  fondly,  and  guard 
so  tenderly,  must  one  day  bear,  as  we  do,  the  burden  of  tliis 
evil  world.  When  we  are  sinking  ourselves  beneath  pressing 
cares,  we  can  least  endure  the  thought  that  they  must  sink- 
likewise.  When  we  are  struggling  with  the  claims  of  conflict- 
ing duties,  or  worn  with  exertions  for  their  happiness,  we  can 
least  look  forward  to  the  same  conflict  for  them.  AVe  watch 
them  in  their  hours  of  mirth,  and  listen  to  their  joyful  expecta- 
tions, and  in  pit}'-  suffer  the  delusion  to  last  whilst  yet  it  may  ; 

r 


/44  THE      EARL    S      D  A  U  G  11  T  E  11  . 

and  at  longlli  \vc  ourselvos  become  sharers  in  it,  and,  eluding 
our  eyes  to  reality,  whisper  to  our  own  hearts,  "  To-morrow 
shall  be  as  this  day,  and  much  more  abundant."  Happy  is 
it  that  a  truer  love  and  a  wiser  forethought  is  steadily,  unshrink- 
ingly,  yet  most  mercifully,  preparing  for  them  the  cup  of  trial 
which  we  would  so  weakly  withhold. 

A  knock  at  the  door  disturbed  the  traiu  of  Mrs.  "Wentworth's 
thoughts.  "Come  in,"  was  the  order,  spoken  quickly  and 
nervously ;  but  Mrs.  ^Yentworth  did  not  look  round. 

"  Did  you  want  me,  mamma  ?"  asked  Eleanor,  standing  as  if 
unwilling  to  enter. 

"  Yes  ;  if  you  are  not  engaged.     Is  Susan  at  her  lessons  ?" 

"  She  was  just  going  to  say  them  ;  but  she  can  do  something 
by  herself,  if  you  wish  it,  mamma,"  and  Eleanor  retired. 

Several  minutes  passed  before  her  return,  more,  it  seemed, 
than  were  necessary,  and  Mrs.  Wentworth  had  a  hasty  word  on 
her  lips  in  consequence;  but  it  was  not  uttered,  and  served 
only  to  give  a  sadder  tone  to  her  voice,  as  she  said,  "  I 
would  not  have  interrupted  you,  my  dear,  if  there  had  not 
been  a  necessity." 

A  little  awkwardness  was  perceptible  in  Eleanor's  manner  as 
she  approached  her  mother ;  and  a  certain  consciousness  that  the 
necessity  alluded  to  was  not  an  agreeable  one. 

"  You  were  very  late  returning  from  the  castle  last  night,  my 
love,"  continued  Mrs.  Wentworth.  "  I  did  not  like  to  vex  you 
by  saying  anything  about  it  at  the  time ;  but  I  was  sorry.  I  did 
not  expect,  indeed,  that  you  would  have  stayed  to  dine." 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  do  it,"  replied  Eleanor ;  "  but  we  went 
out  driving  and  riding,  and  came  back  late ;  and  then  La^y 
Charlton  and  Adelaide  persuaded  me,  and  I  thought  you  would 
not  be  angry." 

"  Adelaide,"  repeated  Mrs.  Wentworth  in  a  musing  tone  ;  but 
she  made  no  other  comment  upon  the  familiarity.  "  I  am  not 
angrj',  my  dear  child,"  she  added  ;  "  and,  perhaps,  I  should  not 
even  be  vexed  if  you  were  alone." 

"You  are  afraid  for  Charles,"  replied  Eleanor;  "but, 
mamma,  it  is  his  only  amusement." 

"  Y  es,  I  know  it ;  but  it  makes  me  very  anxious." 

Eleanor  looked  steadily  in  her  mother's  face,  whilst  a  smile, 
which  she  vainly  strove  to  repress,  stole  over  her  features,  as  she 
said,  "  You  are  afraid  of  his  falling  in  love,  mamma  ?" 
_  "  Falling  in  love,  my  dear !     No  !"  and  Mrs.  Wentworth's 
lipa  curled  in  disgust.     "  I  could  never  fear  that  Charles  would 


THE     earl's    daughter.  145 

fall  in  love  ■with  anything  so  vain  and  fiivoluus  as  ]\Iis3 
Charlton  ;  but  I  am  afraid  of  his  being  led  on  to  say  and  do 
foolish  things  ;  to  flatter  and  talk  nonsense,  and  go  further  than 
he  knows  ;  to  flirt  in  fiict :  and  I  am  afraid  of  your  seeing  it, 
and  perhaps  being  induced  to  join  in  it  in  a  certain  way.  I 
could  not  bear  that  sort  of  thing,  Eleanor ;  it  would  be  so 
utterly  against  my  taste,  not  to  put  it  upon  liigher  grounds." 

"  Charles  likes  Miss  Charlton  very  well,"  said  Eleanor  ;  "  but 
he  do^  not  really  care  for  her." 

"  I  do  not  see  that  it  makes  much  diflference  whether  he  does 
or  does  not,"  replied  Mrs.  Wentworth ;  "  for  a  young  man  just 
prejiaring  for  ordination  to  waste  his  time  and  lower  his  charac- 
ter by  dancing  attendance  upon  a  silly  girl,  whom  he  does  not 
care  for,  merely  because  he  wants  amusement,  is,  to  say  the  least, 
unworthy." 

"  The  Chafitons  will  be  going  soon,"  said  Eleanor.  "  Lady 
Charlton  talks  of  spending  the  winter  at  Senilhurst,  and  taking 
Blanche  with  her." 

"  Indeed !"    Mrs.  Wentworth's  face  brightened  instantly. 

"Yes;  it  is  nearly  settled ;"  but  Eleanor  looked  as  much 
vexed  as  her  mother  was  relieved. 

Mrs.  Wentworth  observed  the  expression  of  her  face  :  "  My 
dear  child,  you  must  forgive  me  for  being  glad ;  I  do  feel  for 

you." 

Eleanor  only  drew  up  with  an  air  of  reserve,  and  said,  "  I  am 
not  disappointed  ;  I  have  known  that  it  must  be  so  from  the 
beginning." 

"  It  will  smooth  every  difficulty  if  they  go,"  continued  Mrs^ 
Wentworth,  evidently  trying  to  be  frank  and  unconstrained 
"  that  was  why  I  sent  for  you,  Eleanor,  to  know  if  you  could  tell 
me  anything  of  their  movements.  If  they  were  to  remain,  I 
must  urge  your  father  to  make  some  other  arrangement  for 
Charles.  1  have  such  a  great  dread  of  the  intimacy.  Can  you 
not  understand  me  ?"  she  added,  watching  Eleanor's  counte- 
nance narrowly.     "  I  think  you  must  see  yourself  how  bad  it  is." 

"  Certainly,". replied  Eleanor,  flattered  by  her  mother's  confi- 
Jenco,  "  Adelaide  Charlton  is  not  the  person  to  improve  him  ; 
out,  there  is  more  in  her,  mamma,  than  you  would  give  her 
credit  for." 

"  That  may  be ;  but  Charles  must  have  a  superior  wife,  if  he 
i-<  ever  to  do  anything  in  life,  lie  must  marry  a  woman  when? 
he  n-apccts." 

"  And  loves,  too,"  said  Eleanor. 


146  THE    kakl's    daughter. 

"  Yos,  assuredly ;  but  the  love  in  which  there  is  no  respect  is 
but  a  broken  reed  to  rest  upon.  However,  I  need  not  take  up 
your  time  any  lonii:er,  my  love.  If  Lady  Charlton  goes  soon, 
all  my  trouble  will  bo  at  an  end  ;  and,  in  the  mean  time,  I  must 
trust  to  you  not  to  do  more  than  you  can  help  in  biinging  them 
together." 

"  I  will  not  do  anything  you  dislike,  dear  mamma,"  was 
I'lloanor's  reply ;  "  if  you  will  only  look  less  anxious  than  you 
did  when  I  came  in." 

"Anxious,  did  I  ?     My  face  is  not  generally  a  tell-tale  ?" 

"  I  understand  it  always,"  answered  Eleanor.  "  You  have 
been  uncomfortable  very  often  lately," 

Mrs.  Wentworth  did  not  contradict  the  assertion. 

"I  think  you  would  be  happier,"  added  Eleanor,  "if  tne  fastle 
was  far  oft;  and  yet,  mamma,"  and  she  hesitated,  "  yousuftered 
me  to  be  brought  up  with  Blanche." 

"  Yes,  I  did  ;  possibly  it  was  a  mistake."  Mrs.  Wentworth 
thought  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  continued,  "  Yet  I  acted 
for  the  best  at  the  time.  When  you  first  went  to  Mrs.  Howard 
I  was  very  ill ;  I  could  not  take  proper  care  of  you  myself. 
Mrs.  Howard  urged  me  to  let  you  go  for  the  sake  of  Lady 
Blanche,  and  for  her  mother's  sake.  At  that  time  there  seemed 
little  probability  that  Loi'd  Rutherford  would  ever  settle  perma- 
nently in  England  ;  or,  if  he  did,  that  he  would  choose  to  reside 
at  Itiitherford.  The  circumstances  under  which  he  left  it  were 
such  that  I  myself  could  not  have  contemplated  his  return.  He 
has  another  place  in  the  north ;  I  imagined  that  he  would  have 
preferred  it.  Yet  it  might  have  been  an  error,  a  want  of  due 
forethought.     Oh  !  Eleanor,  you  will  not  make  me  regret  it !" 

Eleanor's  feelings  were  touched  by  the  earnestness  with  which 
her  mother  spoke.  "Mamma!"  she  exclaimed,  "I  have  been 
foolish,  I  know,  of  late  ;  but,  indeed,  you  may  trust  me.  I  can 
only  learn  good  from  Blanche,  and  I  cannot  really  be  led  away 
by  a  person  like  Adelaide  Charlton." 

"  God  forbid  you  ever  should  be,  "Siy  love,"  replied  Mrs. 
Wentworth.  "You  do  not  know  all  that  such  an  influence 
brings  ;  how  it  lowers,  wastes,  vitiates  the  whole  tone  of  the  cha- 
racter ;  how  its  effects  are  felt  for  years  and  years.  Such  a  mind 
ns  yours,  Eleanor,  if  it  is  not  bent  upon  the  highest  objects, 
destroys  itself;  .t  cannot  rest  in  mean  pursuits,  and  it  turns 
inrt^ard  and  gnaws  at  the  root  of  its  own  hap])iness.  And  you 
may  be— shall  I  tell  you  what  you  may  be  ?— what  I  havt 
Rometinjcs  pleased  myself  by  imagining  you  to  be  ?" 


THE    Karl's    DAUGurER.  147 

"  Sometliing  much  better  than  I  can  ever  imagine  myself,  J 
am  sure,"  said  Eleanor. 

"  Yet  nothing  beyond  your  power,"  continued  her  mother.  "A 
woman  with  all  a  woman's  tastes,  and  gentleness,  and  modesty  ; 
yet  earnest,  untiring,  exalted  in  your  aims,  enlarged  in  yuur 
views,  sufficient  for  your  own  happiness,  from  having  fixed  it 
where  alona>t  may  be  safely  centred,  whilst  living  in  the  hap- 
piness of  others,  because  your  whole  life  is  devoted  to  the  pru- 
motiop  of  their  welfare  ;  and  having  a  power  over  their  minds, 
because  you  have  kept  such  a  strict  watch  over  your  own.  That 
is  what  you  may  be." 

"  And  what  shall  I  be,  mamma  ?"  The  question  was  put  in 
a  tone  of  great  thoughtfulness. 

Mi-s.  ^yentworth  paused,  and  her  voice  sank  again  into  its 
c^uiet  stillness,  as  she  said,  "  One  only  knows." 

"  But  tell  me  ;  help  me,  if  you  can,"  said  Eleanor  ;  "  tell  me 
what  I  must  be  if  I  am  not  what  you  describe.  Mamma,  it  may 
do  me  more  good  than  you  can  think." 

"  \Yould  you  wish  to  hear  ?"  replied  Mrs.  Wentworth.  "  You 
will  think  me  exaggerating,  yet  I  have  watched  the  downward 
progress  of  many  characters  like  yours,  and  the  general  outline 
is  ahke  in  all.  First,  self-dissatisfaction  and  a  longing  for  the 
respect  which  might  be  deserved,  and  then  an  endeavour  ■  to  be 
satisfied  with  mere  admiration  instead ;  admiration  becoming 
necessary,  and  sinking  gradually  into  the  craving  of  a  miserable 
vanity ;  and  this  changing  in  old  age  into  a  sharp,  cynical  nar- 
rowness of  mind,  which  is  wretchedness  to  itself  and  others.  I 
am  not  speaking  in  the  least  too  strongly,  Eleanor.  I  have  seen 
it,  and  grieved  over  it ;  and  the  first  sjnnptom  has  always  been 
that  fickleness  of  action,  though  not  of  intention,  in  little  things, 
which  you  are  always  regretting." 

"  And  never  amending,"  said  Eleanor.  "  ^lamma,  I  must  do 
so,  I  will."  The  house-bell  rang  at  that  moment;  Eleanor 
Coloured  deeply.  "  It  is  Adelaide  Charlton,"  she  said.  "  I  did 
*'erv  wrong ;  I  asked  her  to  come." 

Mrs.  ^Yentworth  strove  hard  not  to  sliow  her  real  annoyance. 

"  She  shall  stay  but  a  few  minutes,"  continued  Eleanor. 
"  She  has  only  to  look  over  some  music,  and  she  knows  I  shall 
be  busy." 

Miss  Charlton  was  announced  in  the  drawing-room. 

Mrs.  Wentvvorth  rose  and  said  she  would  receive  her,  and, 
3olIecting  her  letters,  was  preparing  to  go,  when  Dr.  Went- 
worth's   voice   wa.s  heard      The  meetinir   at  the   Union    waa 


148  T  II  K      E  A  K  L    S      DAUGHTER. 

ilcfcrrod ;  be  was  ivtunioJ  unexpectedly,  and  he  came  to  tlie 
window  to  say  so. 

"  1  want  you,  my  dear,  particularly.  I  must  Lave  you  for  a 
few  minutes  to  go  into  the  village  with  me." 

"  Is  it  really  necessary  ?  There  are  visitors  in  the  drawing- 
room." 

"  What  visitors  ?  Only  Miss  Charlton.  Charles  and  Eleanor 
will  entertain  her." 

Mrs.  Wentworth's  conscience  smote  her  for  the  pride  -wliich 
had  made  her  shut  up  from  her  husband  the  anxieties  which  she 
imagined  he  could  not  sympathise  with.  Now,  when  she 
wanted  his  assistance,  he  was  working  unknowingly  against 
her. 

"  Indeed,  I  must  have  you,  my  dear,"  he  continued.  "  I  am 
in  a  hurry." 

Mrs.  Wentworth  could  say  no  more ;  but  she  looked  at 
Eleanor  as  she  joined  him,  and  Eleanor  answered  the  look  with 
"  Adelaide  will  only  stay  a  few  minutes.  I  shall  not  let  her 
do  so." 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

"  I  HOPE  I  am  not  interrupting  you,"  began  Adelaide  Charl 
ton,  as  Eleanor  welcomed  her  with  a  gravity  of  manner  which 
she  could  not  hide. 

"  Oh  !  pray  don't  name  it.  I  shall  find  the  music  I  men- 
tioned almost  immediately,"  and  Eleanor  began  searching  for 
it  hurriedly  inquiring  at  the  same  time  for  every  one  at  the 
castle. 

Adelaide  rattled  on  in  her  usual  style.  They  must  have  had 
a  b;id  night,  she  supposed,  for  they  all  seemed  cross  ;  but  she 
made  a  point  of  never  inquiring  what  was  the  matter.  She  had 
left  Maude  and  Blanche  in  close  conversation  ;  but,  of  course, 
she  did  not  know  what  it  was  about :  they  were  becoming  such 
desperate  friends,  it  would  not  do  to  pry  into  their  secrets. 

Eleanor  bent  over  the  music-stand,  and  regretted  that  the 
lost  piece  of  music  was  not  forthcoming;  but  promised  to  look 
for  it,  and  send  it  to  the  castle  in  the  course  of  the  day. 

"  Oh  !  it  docs  not  signify  ;"  was  Adelaide's  inditferent  reply. 
"  One  never  really  cares  for  any  particular  piece ;  I  dare  say 
fou  have  a  good  many  that  I  don't  know.     May  I  look  ?"     She 


THE      EARLS      DAUGHTER.  149 

took  up  a  piece  of  music,  hummed  a  few  notes,  thought  it 
seemed  })retty,  and  seated  herself  at  the  piano  to  try  it.  "  Aw- 
fully difficult  all  this  style  of  music  is,  and  not  in  good  taste, 
people  say ;  at  least,  Maude  says  so,  and  she  is  the  oracle. 
After  all,  instrumental  music  is  worth  nothing  compared  with 
vocal.  How  badly  your  brother  and  I  sang  last  night !  We 
really  must  ^actise  before  we  exhibit  again.  Don't  you  think 
it  would  be  a  good  thing  to  have  practising  days  5" 

"  l^ne  had  time,  it  might  be,"  said  Eleanor. 

"  Oh,  but  we  must  make  time.  I  \iave  no  notion  of  persons 
not  finding  sufficient  time  for  anything  they  wish.  I  pjrotest, 
ihere  is  that  enchanting  trio  we  were  talking  of;  you  must 
try  it." 

"  A  trio  for  two  persons  !"  said  Eleanor,  laughing ;  "  that  will 
not  quite  do." 

"  Never  mind  ;  just  try  our  part." 

She  struck  the  first  few  chords ;  Eleanor  grew  hopeless  of 
escape,  Adelaide's  visit  was  from  her  own  invitation,  and  she 
could  not  summon  courage  to  shorten  it  by  confessing  her 
engagements. 

"  You  very  good  people  are  so  methodical,"  continued 
Adelaide  ;  "  you  quite  p)ut  one  to  the  blush.  I  declare,  to  see 
the  way  Blanche  goes  on  is  enough  to  convert  one  into  an 
automaton.  I  must  have  some  music  this  morning  to  put  me 
in  good  humour." 

"  Can  that  ever  be  needed  ?"  asked  a  voice  from  behind  her  ; 
and  to  Eleanor's  extreme  annoyance,  her  brother  joined  them. 

Adelaide  Charlton's  manner  showed  instantaneously  the 
working  of  her  mind.  There  was  a  little  blushing,  a  little  ban- 
tering, a  good  many  quick  upward  glances,  interspersed  with  a 
few  downcast  modest  ones  ;  some  pretty  nonsense  about  music 
and  flowers,  and  a  pretence  at  shyness,  when  Mr.  Wentworth 
asked  her  to  sing,  with  an  evident  disinclination  to  leave  off 
fthen  she  had  begun.  It  was  vanity,  unmistakeable ;  and  Elea- 
nor stood  by  and  compared  Adelaide's  flirting  with  her  own 
dignity ;  and,  in  the  pleasure  of  self  satisfaction,  forgot  her 
mothei''s  caution  and  her  own  promises.  And  so  the  minutes 
went  by,  and  Eleanor  satisfied  herself  that,  the  waste  of  time 
could  not  be  avoided,  and  therefore  it  could  not  be  wrong  to 
enjoy  it.     And  she  did  enjoy  it  in  a  measure. 

There  is  generally  something  agreeable  in  that  sort  of  light, 
quick  conversation  which  accompanies  music,  and  Adelaide 
'Jharlton  was  not  deficient  in  talent  of  a  certain  kind.     She  had 


150  lUK      EAUL    S      DAUGHTER. 

travollod  and  could  relate  amusing  adventures  lierself,  and  assisj 
Mr.  Wentworth  in  remembering  his;  and  she  had  seen  more 
•of  the  world  than  Eleanor,  and  laughed  at  many  of  her  simple 
notions ;  she  was  older  also,  and  had  been  presented  at  court, 
and  w;is  ac<iuainted  Avith  peo[ile  of  rank  and  fashion.  These 
were  all  ingredients  of  influence,  especially  when  mingled  with 
them  was  Uie  thought,  "  Notwithstanding  all  these  advantages, 
I  am  the  superior." 

"  And  now,  Charles,  we  really  must  be  steady,"  was  at  length 
Eleanor's  faint  endeavour  to  stop  the  flow  of  the  conversation. 
"  I  am  doing  very  wrong  in  staying  here,  and  you  are  doing 
very  wrong  too,  Adelaide.  I  must  be  rude  and  send  you  awaj', 
or  we  shall  both  get  into  disgrace." 

Adelaide  started  from  her  seat ;  "  Go,  must  I  ?  Weh  I  sup- 
pose I  have  been  here  an  immense  time.  I  did  not  mean  to 
sta}^  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Mr.  Wentworth,  I  must  trouble  you 
to  return  my  glove :  you  seem  bent  upon  keeping  possession  of 
it ;  but  I  am  afraid  it  will  not  be  quite  as  useful  to  you  as  to 
me."  She  held  out  her  hand,  and  to  her  surprise,  the  glove 
was  given  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  Mr.  Wentworth  turning 
suddenly  to  his  sister,  said,  in  a  tone  of  quiet  politeness, 
"  Eleanor,  you  do  not  see — Lady  Blanche  Evelyn." 

Blanche  was  at  the  window,  and  Mr,  Wentworth  stepped 
forward  to  open  it.  His  manner  was  quite  different ;  thought- 
ful and  respectful,  as  if  some  sudden  spell  had  been  cast  over 
him.  Yet  Blanche  was  thoroughly  at  her  ease,  smiled  and 
shook  hands,  and  rallied  him  upon  his  musical  mania.  Perhaps 
he  saw  that  the  words  were  words  of  course,  spoken  to  smoothe 
the  little  stiffness  of  the  party,  for  there  was  no  real  gaiety  in 
what  she  said.  She  looked  ill  and  harassed,  and  when 
Adelaide  declared  her  intention  to  return  to  the  castle,  Blanche 
m.ade  no  remark,  and  allowed  her  to  say  "  Good  b'ye,"  without 
asking  her  to  wait.  So  Adelaide,  after  a  little  more  lingering 
and  sighing,  and  laughing,  departed,  taking  care  when  she  had 
gone  a  few  steps  to  attract  attention,  by  an  "  Oh !  Mr.  AVeut- 
worth,  I  forgot ;"  which  drew  him  after  her,  and  induced  him 
to  accompany  her  more  than  half-way  home. 

Eleanor  stood  watching  them  until  they  were  feirly  out  of 
sight,  and  then  going  up  to  Blanche,  said,  as  she  stooped  to  kiss 
her,  "  Blanche,  I  am  thankful  you  are  not  your  cousin  Ade- 
laide." 

Blanche  smiled,  and  replied,  "  Perhaps,  I  am  glad  too  ;  and 
vet  that  is  wrong,"  she  added,   correcting  herself ;  though  one 


THE      earl's      daughter.  151 

may  be  jjlad  one  is  not  forced  to  load  the  same  life.  But, 
Eleanor,  I  was  not  prepared  for  your  having  any  one  here  ;  and 
I  thought  Susan's  lesson  would  be  over  by  this  time.  If  Ade- 
laide has  been  with  you  that  of  course  is  impossible." 

Eleanor  had  seldom  felt  less  inclined  to  attend  to  lessons,  and, 
as  an  excuse  to  herself,  said,  that  Susan  could  do  very  well 
without  her  ^r  the  present  ;  she  wished  fii-st  to  know  what  had 
brought  Blanche  to  the  rectory. 

"  Business  that  can  wait  very  well,"  replied  Blanche,  "  so 
please  go,  if  you  have  anything  to  do,  and  I  will  sit  here  and 
write  a  letter  till  you  are  ready." 

"  But  you  look  fagged  and  won-ied,  Blanche  ;   ^vhat  has  been 


gomg  wrong 


2" 


The  eyes  of  Blanche  filled  with  tears,  but  not  one  was  suf- 
fered to  escape,  and,  avoiding  a  direct  reply,  she  said,  "  I  came 
here  partly  to  tell  you  that  we  shall  all  probably  go  to  Senil- 
hurst  immediately." 

Eleanor's  countenance  betokened  blank  disappointment  ;  she 
was  not  prepared  for  such  a  sudden  move. 

"Yes,"  continued  Blanche  quickly,  as  if  anxious  to  avoid 
questions  ;  "it  is  my  aunt's  wish,  and  I  shall  vex  her  if  I  refuse, 
and  I  don't  think  papa  will  dislike  it.  My  aunt  says  it  is  the 
best  thing  for  me  ;  and,  and  I  don't  much  care  myself 
what "  her  voice  failed  her,  and  she  burst  into  tears. 

Eleanor  was  at  her  side  in  an  instant,  soothing  and  caressing 
her,  and  entreating  to  be  told  what  was  the  cause  of  her  grief. 
Blanche  seemed  distressed  at  her  own  weakness,  but  had  no 
power  of  controlling  it  when  she  had  once  given  way. 

"  Oh,  Eleanor  !"  she  exclaimed,  "  if  they  had  only  told  me  ; 
if  they  had  not  brought  me  up  in  ignorance !" 

"Ignorance,  dearest  Blanche!     Of  what?" 

"  Of  everything  ;  of  -what  I  ought  to  have  known  ;  what  all 
the  world  knows  except  mj-self,"  re])lied  Blanche,  impetuously  ; 
ii  feeling  of  pride  mingling  unperceived  with  her  sorrow. 

"  All  the  world  !  what  ?  how  ?"  inquired  Eleanor,  frightcTied 
at  her  unusual  vehemence. 

"  You  know',"  continued  Blanche,  and  she  grasped  her  friend's 
arm,  nervously,  mitil  Eleanor  saiil,  "  I  can  know  nothing  which 
you  will  not  tell  me;"  and  then  Blanche  dropped  her  hand,  and 
leaning  her  forehead  upon  the  table,  murmured,  "  1  am  unkind 
too  !  and  I  thought  I  had  self-conmiand  !" 

"You  must  not  have  Si'lf-comni;tnd  with  me,  dearest,"  said 
Eleanor.  "  If  vou  cannot  talk  openly  to  me,  whom  can  vou 
^jo  to  ?"  ' 


152  THE      EARLS      D  A  U  G  H  T  E  K  . 

"  No  one  ;  no  one ;"  was  the  mournful  answer.  "  But  1 
tliiiik  I  could  bear  it  better  if  I  knew  all.  Oh,  Eleanor  !  are  you 
sure  ?  did  your  mother  never  talk  to  you  ?  did  she  never  tell 
yyi,  of — of  my  own  mother — my  sweet  mother  ?"  she  paused, 
and  her  voice  sank  almost  to  a  whisper ;  but  it  was  a  whisper 
dear  and  thrillinfj,  and  Eleanor's  cheek  turned  pale,  and  a 
shudder  passed  through  her  frame  as  she  heard,  "  Eleanor,  she 
was  insane." 

There  followed  a  long  pause,  until  Eleanor  said  very  gently, 
"  Mamma,  if  it  is  true,  would  tell  yci  all." 

Blanche  shook  her  head  :  "  I  could  not  ask  her.  I  had  a 
thought — a  foolish  one — that  you  might  know." 

"  iS^o,  never.     Could  I  have  hidden  it  from  you  ?" 

"  Perhaps  so  ;  they  all  did.  They  thought  it  right  ;  it  was  a 
cruel  kindness." 

"Are  you  quite  certain  it  is  true  ?"  asked  Eleanor. 

"  Maude  says  so  ;  and  I  feel  it.  I  understand  things  now. 
Oh  !  if  I  could  have  comforted  her  but  for  one  hour  !"  and 
Blanche  groaned  in  agony  for  the  past,  whilst  Eleanor  trembled 
at  tlie  horrible  train  of  thought  which  in  those  few  moments  had 
been  conjured  up  for  the  future. 

Blanche  recovered  herself  by  degrees.  She  related  what  had 
passed  with  Maude,  and  showed  Eleanor  how  the  fact  was  con- 
firmed by  her  mother's  papers,  and  the  strange  silence  and  mys- 
tery in  which  everything  connected  with  her  was  involved.  She 
seemed  to  shrink  from  any  attempt  to  persuade  her  into 
disbelief.  "  It  was  better,"  she  said,  "  to  face  the  truth  at 
once  ;  that  was  what  she  was  now  longing  to  do  entirely.  A 
few  days  ago  she  could  have  gone  to  her  aunt  ;  but  there  had 
been  an  unhappy  misunderstanding  ;  she  scarcely  knew  how  it 
had  arisen  ;  from  some  foolish  changeableness  of  her  own,  she 
believed.  It  had  worried  Lady  Charlton  extremely,  and  she  had 
not  recovered  it.  There  is  no  one  besides  her,  except  your 
mother,"  continued  Blanche,  and  Eleanor  assented.  She  did 
not  venture  to  ask  why  Lord  liutherford's  name  was  not  men- 
tioned. 

"  And  why  should  you  not  go  to  mamma  ?"  she  said,  as 
Blanche  again  repeated  her  longing  wish  to  bear  the  particu- 
lars of  her  mother's  history. 

The  answer  was  given  with  some  reluctance  :  "  Because  I  am 
afraid  of  her." 

"Afraid  of  her!  so  good,  and  gentle,  and  charitable,  as  eLe 
Is.     Oh,  Blanche  1" 


THE      EAKLS      DAUGHTKR.  153 

"  Yet  Still  I  am  afraid.  Do  you  know  what  it  is  to  have  an 
intuitive  perception  of  being  misunderstood — misjudged?  Her 
interest  in  you  absorbs  her  ;  and  well  it  may.  It  is  a  mother's 
love."  Blanche  turned  away  her  head  to  hide  her  unbidden 
tears.  "  I  am  very  wrong  to  regret,"  she  added,  "  only  some- 
times I  think  that,  if  my  mother  had  lived,  I  might  have  been 
better  ;  butjiicn " 

It  was  an  awful  thought  which  suggested  itself  to  lx)th,  and 
Eleanpr,  willing  to  divert  it,  said  "Even  a  mother's  love,  IJlauche, 
cannot  always  be  our  safeguard." 

"  It  seems  so,  as  if  it  must  be,"  rejtlied  Blanche,  musingly. 
"  Your  home,  and  its  quietness  and  peace  ;  ail  your  time 
marked  out,  and  your  duties  fixed,  and  a  friend  to  go  to  always; 
it  must  be  safer  than  mine." 

Eleanor  made  no  direct  answer.  "  When  do  you  go  to  Senil- 
hurst  V  she  said  abruptly. 

"  Directly,  I  think  ;  but  the  day  is  not  fixed." 

This  was  said  with  an  air  of  such  melancholy  indifference  as 
to  recall  Eleanor  from  all  thoughts  of  herself. 

"  You  must  be  made  happier  before  you  go,  Blanche,"  she 
exclaimed. 

"  That  cannot  be.  I  must  try  and  bear  it,  and  the  pain  may 
lessen." 

"  But  not  the  ignorance  and  mystery ;  and  if  you  chose,  there 
would  be  Hothing  easier  than  to  learn  everything.  Mamma 
would  tell  you  every  little  detail,  if  she  thought  you  were  aware 
of  the  truth  ;  and  you  would  feel  her  value  then." 

Blanche  recollected  the  request  for  her  mother's  picture,  and 
was  silent. 

Just  then  Mrs.  Wentworth  came  into  the  room,  accompanied 
by  Susan.  Blanche  looked  nervous  and  agitated.  Mrs.  Went- 
worth spoke  to  her,  but  seemed  to  have  an  instant  perception 
tliat  all  was  not  right ;  and  addressing  Eleanor  reminded  her 
that  the  morning  was  fast  passing  away,  and  that  Susan's  lessons 
eould  not  ])ossib!y  be  finished  in  time  if  she  was  left  to  herself 
'^  I  make  no  apology  to  Lady  Blanche,"  she  added  ;  "  she  will 
not  require  it.  I  am  glad  you  have  been  detained  by  her."  A 
meaning  stress  was  laid  upon  the  pronoun,  and  Eleanor's  sincere 
conscience  would  not  suffer  her  to  misunderetand  it. 

"  Blanche  has  been  here  but  a  short  time,"  she  said.  "  Ade- 
laide Charlton  stayed  longer  than  I  thought  she  would,  and 
Charles  came  in,  and  they  sang." 

"Oh!" 


154  THE      EARL    S      DAUGHTER. 

There  was  no  further  remark  or  comment.  Eleanor  kissed 
her  mother,  and  the  kiss  was  returned  warmly;  but  the  sigh 
whieii  accompanied  it  spoke  vokunes  of  disap|iointment.  Mrs. 
AVentwortli  sat  down  when  she  was  gone ;  her  manner  was  less 
self-possessed  tliMn  usual.  She  asked  a  few  unconnected  ques- 
tions, and  when  Blanche  mentioned  the  plan  of  going  to  Senil- 
hurst  directly,  she  did  not  appear  to  take  in  the  idea;  her  mind 
was  wandering  to  another  subject.  At  length,  Blanche  asked  if 
she  might  stay  and  write  a  letter,  and  occupy  herself  till  Eleanor 
was  at  leisure  again  ;  and  this  seemed  to  put  Mrs.  Wentvvorth 
at  ease,  and  she  placed  the  portfolio  for  her,  and  laughed  at  the 
bad  pens  which  she  had  to  offer,  and  afterwards,  saying  she 
would  leave  her  at  liberty,  went  away. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

"  Your  master  is  much  better  this  morning,  Pearson,"  said 
Lady  Charlton,  addressing  the  civil  man-servant,  as  he  stood 
aside,  condensing  himself  into  the  smallest  possible  compass, 
while  she  passed. 

"  Rather  better,  my  lady.  I  am  afraid  he  has  been  in  a  good 
deal  of  pain  the  last  half-hour." 

"  But  he  is  better,  Pearson  ;  a  good  deal.  Mr.  Stone  said  so 
yesterday.     He  will  be  able  to  go  to  Senilhurst  soon." 

"  Certainly,  my  lady  ;  certainly,  if  you  wish  it.  Did  you  say 
soon  ?" 

"  Yes ;  very  soon ;  next  week.  Your  master  will  be  quite 
ready  for  the  journey  by  that  time." 

"  Certainly,  my  lady  ;"  and  a  faint  smile  played  upon  the 
lips  of  the  well-instructed  Pearson.  "  The  change  is  to  do  him 
good,  I  imagine,  my  lady." 

"  Of  course ;  and  this  weather  will  do  very'  well  for  travelling ; 
later  in  the  season  might  be  running  a  risk." 

"Certainly,  my  lady;  and  it  might  be  bad  for  your  ladysliip 
And  the  young  ladies." 

"Yes;  in  fact,  we  must  be  at  Senilhurst  next  week.  Lord 
Rutherford  and  Lady  Blanche  will  accompany  us."  Pearson 
bowed  low.  "  I  shall  see  your  master  presently,  Pearson." 
Another  bow. 

Lady  Charlton  went  to  the  drawing-room,  and  Pearson 
repaired  to  the  library,  to  see  if  the  tire  was  getting  low.     The 


THE     earl's     daughter.  15f» 

glance  with  wliicli  Sir  Ilugli  repaid  his  attention  was  discourag- 
ing ;  so  were  his  words.  As  usual,  they  wore  a  reproach  for  the 
length  of  time  he  had  been  left,  and,  as  usual,  Pearson  made  no 
attempt  at  explanation,  and  only  answered,  "  Very  sorry,  Sir 
JIugh  ;  extremely  sorry  ;  might  I  be  allowed  ? — I  think  I  could 
put  vour  2:)illow  more  comfortable." 

"  Not  at  ^1 ;  I  don't  want  to  be  comfortable.  Left  alone 
two  full  hours  !  it's  unbearable." 

"  I  was  certainly  forgetful,"  began  Pearson. 

"  Forgetful !  idiot,  you  forget  everything  !  Where's  my 
medicine  ?" 

Pearson  poured  it  out,  and  as  he  handed  it  to  his  master,  ven- 
tured to  observe  that  the  day  was  so  fine,  he  hoped  it  might  do 
for  a  drive. 

"  Where  is  the  good  of  driving?"  muttered  Sir  Hugh,  "the 
bills  stop  one  at  every  half-mile." 

"  Exactly  what  I  was  saying  to  the  bailiff  just  now,  Sir  Hugh. 
Mr.  Denham,  said  I,  this  place  is  very  different  from  Senilhuist. 
There  we  have  a  fine  open  country,  where  my  master  can  drive 
about  and  get  plenty  of  fresh  air ;  beautiful  soft  in  the  valleys, 
bracing  upon  the  downs.  Trust  me,  if  you  could  come  to  Senil- 
hurst,  you  would  never  wish  to  go  back  to  Rutherford." 

"  Then  you  talked  nonsense,  Pearson,"  exclaimed  Sir  Hugh 
more  mildly  than  before. 

Pearson  did  not  seem  to  notice  the  interruption,  but  went  on, 
"Mr.  rx-nhara  is  hard  of  belief;  a  very  narrow  mind;  never 
has  travelled  at  all.  Sir  Hugh.  He  wouldn't  credit  a  word  I 
told  him  of  your  crop  of  turnips  the  year  before  last?"  Sir 
Hugh  leaned  his  head  upon  his  hand  in  a  soothed  attitude. 
"  Wonderful,  those  turnips  were  !"  continued  Pearson ;  "  but,  as  I 
told  Mr.  Denham, — my  master,  said  I,  understands  these  things  ; 
he's  an  experienced  gentleman  ;  he  takes  nothing  upon  trust." 

"And  Denham  wouldn't  believe  3'ou,  eh?"  said  Sir  Hugh. 

"  Wouldn't  bel.eve  a  word,"  said  Pearson  ;  "  said  there  never 
wr.s  such  a  crop  known,  and  he  couldn't  understand  it.  But, said 
I,  Mr.  Denham.  it's  not  for  you  and  me  to  try  and  understand 
iltose  things.  'My  master  is  a  man  of  science,  and  what  he  does 
he  doeij  upon  principle — strict  principle ;  the  turnij)s,  d'ye  see, 
grew  upon  principle." 

"  Hem,  nonsense,"  muttered  Sir  Hugh,  whilst  IIk;  frown  upon 
ais  forehead  gradually  subsided,  and  a  ])leased  smile  stole  over 
nis  features.  "  Why  don't  you  bring  him  to  Senilhurst,  Pear 
Hon,  in-tead  of  trying  to  talk  him  over  here  ?" 


156  THE      EARLS      DAUGHTER. 

"  Uniloubtedly,  Sir  Hugh  ;  it's  the  only  thing  to  oe  dune , 
but,  as  I  said,  if  we  are  to  stay  the  winter  at  Rutherford,  there 
is  no  good  in  tliinking  of  Senilhurst." 

"  And  who  said  we  were  to  spend  the  winter  at  Rutherford  ?" 
inquired  Sir  Hugh  sharply. 

"  I  understood  from  my  lady,"  began  Pearson ;  but  Sir  Hugli 
broke  in,  "  1  have  told  you  tifty  times  before,  Pearson,  that  you 
are  to  understand  from  me  ;  your  lady  knows  nothing  about  the 
matter." 

'*  I  imagined  it  was  my  lady's  wish,"  began  Pearson  again. 

"  And  what  did  you  think  then  was  my  wish  ?  Did  you  sup- 
pose that  I  meant  to  be  cooped  up  here  for  the  next  six  months, 
with  nothing  to  do  but  to  follow  your  lady's  beck  and  call  ?" 

"  ]\Iv  lady  seemed  to  think  it  was  fixed,"  continued  Pearson, 
"  and  of  course  it  was  not  my  place  to  say  anything ;  though  I 
could  see,  like  every  one  else.  Sir  Hugh,  that  it  would  be  better 
for  you  to  be  at  home." 

"  And  what  is  to  hinder  me  from  going  home  ?"  inquired  Sir 
Hugh  ?" 

"  Nothing,  sir,  nothing  ;  if  you  desire  it ;   only  my  lady " 

"  Don't  talk  to  me  of  your  lady ;  my  will  is  her  will." 

"  Unquestionably,  Sir  Hugh ;  and  no  doubt  my  lady's 
health,  and  that  of  the  young  ladies,  would  be  materially 
benefited.  As  I  said  to  Mr.  Denham,  Senilhurst  air  is  quite 
renovating." 

"  And  what  did  Denham  say  to  that  ?" 

"  He  was  amazed,  Sir  Hugh ;  never  saw  a  man  more  so. 
Mr.  Pearson,  said  he,  Senilhurst  must  be  a  paradise.  Mr. 
Denham,  said  I,  it  is." 

"  Hem  !"  muttered  Sir  Hugh  ;  "  Denham's  got  more  sense 
than  I  gave  him  credit  for.  To  see  how  he  manages  the  estate 
here,  one  would  think  him  an  ignorant  booby.  Young  Went- 
worth  knows  much  more  about  farming  than  he  does." 

"  Mr.  Wentworth  has  had  great  advantages,"  observed 
Pearson,  "  going  about  with  a  gentleman  of  such  experience  as 
yourself,  Sir  Hugh." 

"  Wentworth's  a  sensible  fellow,"  continued  Sir  Hugh  :  "  Le 
has  his  eyes  about  him,  and  he's  not  conceited.  He  has  my 
geology  pamphlet  by  heart ;  in  feet,  he's  quite  the  life  of  the 
olace." 

"  Afr.  Wentworth  would  take  a  great  interest  in  the  fanning 
^-t  Senilhurst,"  said  Pearson  insinuatingh^. 

"  Yes,  he  might ;  he  would,  I  think.     There  would  be  a  good 


THE    earl's    daughter,  157 

dful  fur  him  to  learn  there ;"  and  Sir  Hugh  fell  into  a  short 
reverie,  which  was  apparently  caused  by  some  ditficulty  in  the 
contemplated  return  home,  as  he  tapped  his  linger  on  the  tablo 
and  began  reckoning — "  Lady  Charlton,  one  ;  Maude  and  Ady 
three  ;  young  Wentworth,  four ;  it's  one  too  many." 

"  The  earl  and  Lady  Blanche  will  have  a  great  loss  in  your 
absence,  Sir  jjugh,"  began  Pearson,  a  little  alarmed  at  not 
hearing  their  names  mentioned. 

"  Well,  yes ;  I  suppose  they  will,"  said  Sir  Hugh,  stroking 
his  chm ;  "  the  earl  and  I  have  pursuits  in  common,  we  are 
both  literary  men." 

"  There's  a  thought  of  his  lordship  and  Lady  Blanche  re- 
maining here  through  the  winter,  I  suppose,"  said  Pearson  ;  "  at 
least  my  lady  seemed  to  say  so  the  other  day." 

"  what  should  your  lady  know  about  it  ?"  exclaimed  Sir 
Hugh ;  "  the  earl  has  no  fixed  plans,  he  told  me  so  confiden- 
tially.    If  I  were  to  ask  him  to  Senilhurst  he  would  go." 

"  And  be  delighted,  no  doubt,"  rephed  Pearson ;  "  he  has 
not  been  looking  at  all  well  lately." 

"  No  wonder,  living  at  this  place.  He  and  young  Went- 
worth together." — Sir  Hugh  mused  again,  but  whether  upon 
the  travelling  plans,  or  the  probable  indignation  of  Lady 
Charlton  if  he  presumed  to  give  Mr.  Wentworth  an  invitation 
to  Senilhurst,  it  is  impossible  to  say.  The  difficulty  which 
perplexed  him,  whatever  it  was,  seemed,  however,  to  be  insur- 
mountable, for  after  the  silence  of  a  few  minutes,  he  exclaimed, 
"  It  won't  do  ;  no,  it  won't  do ;  and  after  all,  spring  is  the  best 
time  for  seeing  a  place.  If  we  stay  here  a  few  weeks  longer 
we  shall  help  them  on  into  the  winter,  and  they  can  come  to  us 
early  in  the  spring." 

Pearson  was  in  dismay ;  but  he  was  a  man  of  singular 
patience,  and  having  reached  the  point  from  which  he  had 
started,  he  steadily  set  forth  to  traverse  the  same  ground  again ; 
^dling  Sir  Hugh  one  way,  in  the  conviction  that  he  would  be 
sure  to  go  the  other,  until  at  length  he  had  once  more  brought 
him  to  face  the  possibility  of  removing  to  Senilhurst  immedi- 
ately, taking  Lord  Rutherford  and  Lady  Blanche  with  them, 
and  giving  an  indirect  invitation  to  Mr.  Wentworth  to  follow  at 
his  earliest  convenience.  This  last  resolution,  however.  Sir 
Hugh  did  not  fail  to  qualify  by  repeating,  "I  shan't  invite  him  ; 
I  hate  regular  invitations.  Only  if  he  likes  it  of  course  he  will 
be  welcome.  Mind,  Pearson,  I  have  no  intention  of  inviting 
him." 


158  THE      EARL    S      DAUGHTER. 

I'oarson  assented  both  to  the  letter  and  the  spirit  of  thJ3 
dechiration,  and  having  arranged  his  master's  pillows  for  aboui 
the  twentieth  time  since  the  conversation  began,  ventured  to 
snggest  that  Lady  Charlton  might  be  glad  to  know  of  Sir 
Hugh's  definite  plan.  A  gracious  permission  was  given,  and 
Sir  Hugh  raised  himself  in  his  arm-chair  to  look  imposing,  and 
spreading  a  blank  sheet  of  paper  before  him,  chose  a  new  pen 
that  he  might  make  a  legible  list  of  imperative  orders  for  the 
journey. 

"  Sir  Hugh  would  be  glad  to  speak  with  you,  my  lady," 
Raid  Pearson,  as  he  met  Lady  Charlton  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 
His  face  was  impenetrable,  but  his  self-satisfied  tone  showed  that 
all  difficulties  had  been  smoothed  away. 

"  I  will  be  with  him  directly,"  was  Lady  Cnarlton's  soft 
i-eply ;  and  Pearson  went  off  to  the  servants'  hall,  charmed  at 
his  own  cleverness,  in  having  ruled  his  master,  pleased  his 
mistress,  and  been  instrumental  in  suggesting  an  idea,  which  he 
had  good  reason  to  think  would  gratify  one  at  least  of  the 
young  ladies  ;  and  all  without  committing  himself. 


CHxVPTER  XXVn. 


It  was  not  a  long  interview  between  Sir  Hugh  and  Lady 
Charlton  ;  no  interviews  of  this  kind  ever  were  long ;  for  Lady 
Charlton,  when  she  had  once  gained  a  point,  took  care  not  to 
dwell  sufficiently  upon  it  to  give  time  for  a  change  of  feeling. 
The  determination  of  returning  to  Scnilhurst  was  especially 
important  to  her  at  this  moment,  as  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
Rectory  was,  in  her  eyes,  becoming  every  day  more  undesirable. 
Even  if  the  earl  and  Blanche  persitted  in  remaining  at  Ruther- 
ford, she  had  resolved  to  go ;  but  independently  of  her  own 
jileasure,  their  society  would,  she  knew,  be  a  great  inducement 
to  Sir  Hugh  to  consent  to  her  wishes.  His  vanity  would  be 
flattered  by  the  idea  of  slwwing  Blanche  his  own  place  and  his 
own  plans ;  and,  as  she  had  calculated  upon  this  as  the  easy 
mode  of  obtaining  her  point,  she  was  the  more  provoked  at  the 
indecision  which  Blanche  had  evinced.  Still  she  did  not  doubt 
of  gaining  her  object  eventually.  Pearson's  skill  was  almost 
always  successful  in  winning  Sir  Hugh's  consent,  even  against 
his  favourite  wishes  ;  and  Blanche  was  too  gentle  not  to  be 
easily  brought  round.     Yet  Lady  Charlton  allowed  no  surprise 


THE     earl's     daughter.  159 

or  satisfaction  to  be  visible  when  she  entered  the  hbrarj'.  She 
was  quietly  inditierent,  and  even  put  a  few  obstacles  in  the  waji 
of  a  sudden  removal ;  obstacles  which,  of  course,  only  strength- 
ened Sir  Hugh's  resolution,  and  gave  him  a  sense  of  power  in 
showing  the  clever  way  in  which  he  could  surmount  them. 

"  Lord  Rutherford  and  Blanche  must  be  talked  over,"  he 
said ;  and  Lady  Charlton  agreed ;  not  even  a  smile  betraying 
that  the  suggestion  had  been  made  to  them  previously. 

The>iay  of  departure  was  next  to  be  fixed.  Sir  Hugh  named 
it — determined  the  hour  of  starting — wrote  down  the  names  of 
the  few  villages  through  which  they  were  to  pass  before  they 
reached  a  railway  station,  and  the  time  wliich  the  distance  might 
be  expected  to  take ;  and  then  proceeded  to  copy  c  ut  the  after 
details  of  the  journey  from  a  railway  guide,  Lady  Charlton 
assisting  him  by  reading  out  11*25,  I'i'ob,  &:c.,  in  due  succes- 
sion. 

When,  at  length,  the  word  Senilhurst  wa?  written,  in  legible 
characters,  at  the  bottom  of  the  paper,  announcing  the  termina- 
tion of  the  journey,  Sir  Uugh  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair 
and  exclaimed,  *'  There,  my  dear ;  now  I  think  I  have  done  my 
part.  I  have  saved  you  all  the  trouble  of  arrangement,  and  you 
will  have  nothing  in  the  world  to  do  but  just  to  obey  orders — 
the  easiest  thing  of  all — ;iust  to  obey  orders — nothing  more. 
\S^e  leave  this  place  at  half-past  eight  j)recisely ;  we  reach  Senil- 
hurst at  twenty  minutes  past  six.  Don't  troul>le  yourself;  don't 
distress  yourself  about  anything :  you  see  when  a  man  is  once 
accustomed  to  this  sort  of  thing  it  becomes  quite  easy.  You 
may  tell  Maude  and  Ady,  if  you  like  it ;  but  it  will  be  as  well 
to  leave  Rutherford  to  me.  Gentlemen  always  manage  these 
thmgs  best  with  each  other.  I  shall  hiut  my  wishes  gently,  and 
bring  him  round  by  degrees." 

•'Perhaps  it  might  be  the  bes':  way,"  said  Lady  Charlton,  and 
she  rose  to  leave  the  room. 

''Stop,  my  dear  Frances  ;  Lady  Charlton,  you  are  in  such  a 
nurry.  Sit  down,  will  you.  One  thing  we  have  forgotten — 
dinner.  Let  me  see  ;  we  start  at  lialf-past  eight ;  we  reach 
Walion  at  10;  Ditchley,  12-35;  lloxley  Road,  2*40;  Sun- 
bridge,  5-15  ;  reckoning  a  quarter  of  an  hour  for  delay  ;  Senil- 
hurst, G*20 ;  that  leaves  us  forty  minutes — one  hour  and  forty 
minutes  till  eight  o'clock.  Will  one  hour  and  forty  minutes  be 
sufficient  ?  Consider  now — to  settle  yourselves — dress — be,  in 
fact,  quite  ready  for  dinner !  Can  you  promise  t(^  be  in  the 
drawing-room  by  eight  ?" 


160  THE    earl's    daughter. 

Lady  C'hailton  thought  there  would  be  no  difficulty. 

"  Very  well,  then,  that  is  another  point  decided.  You  may 
write  to  Mrs.  Coriie,  and  tell  her  to  have  dinner  ready  at  eight 
precisely.  And,  stay,  don't  I  hear  Lord  Rutherford's  voice  ?" 
The  carl  opened  the  door.  "  The  very  person  I  wanted  to  see. 
1  must  have  a  few  words  with  you  ;  I  must  consult  you." 

Ihit  Ljrd  Rutherford  interrupted  him.  "  I  beg  your  pardon ; 
I  will  return  to  you,  but,  at  this  moment,  I  have  pressing  busi- 
ness. Lady  Chai-lton,  can  you  give  me  a  few  moments  of  your 
leisure  ?"  The  tone  was  unusually  haughty,  and  before  Lady 
Charlton  had  time  to  answer  he  was  gone. 

Lady  Charlton  followed  him  instantly,  in  spite  of  Sir  IIugft*s 
entreaties  that  she  would  wait  and  consider  what  further  arrange- 
ments were  to  be  made. 

Lord  Rutlierford  went  before  her  till  he  reached  his  private 
study,  the  door  of  which  he  opened,  and  motioned  to  her  to 
enter  it,  and  then  closing  and  bolting  it  carefully,  he  sat  down 
opposite  to  her.  Lady  Charlton  turned  pale.  There  was  some- 
thing in  his  coxmtenance  which  would,  in  itself,  have  been  suffi- 
cient to  alarm  her ;  a  look  of  hardly  repressed  indignation, 
reproach,  and  over-excited  feeling :  a  curling  hp — a  frowning 
brow — a  fire  in  his  flashing  eye,  only  softened  by  the  indescrib- 
able expression  of  mental  anguish  that  pervaded  his  whole 
countenance.  He  did  not  speak  for  some  moments,  but  sat 
resting  his  forehead  upon  his  hand.  Lady  Charlton  tried  to 
shake  off  her  fear.  She  went  up  to  him,  laid  her  hand  upon 
his  shoulder,  and  said  in  a  light,  unconstrained  tone,  "You 
must  not  treat  me  in  this  way.  I  must  know  at  once  wliat  is 
the  matter." 

lie  looked  up  and  said  sternly,  "  You  can  tell." 

Lady  Charlton's  tone  was  unchanged  as  she  replied,  '*  You 
are  mistaken.  I  know  nothing  that  has  happened  to  put  you 
into  this  strange  mood." 

"Not  that  you  have  deceived  me — betrayed  me — broken 
your  most  solemn  promise  ?" 

A  momentary  indignation  clouded  Lady  Charlton's  face,  but 
she  subdued  the  rising  feeling,  and  said  gravely  but  calmlv, 
"  My  dear  Rutherford,  this  is  not  language  which  I  ought  to 
hear.  I  have  not  betrayed,  or  deceived  you,  or  broken  any 
solemn  promise ;  and  I  have  not  the  most  remote  idea  what  it 
IS  you  refer  to.  I  must  insist  upon  your  explaining  yourself 
niore  clear] v." 

':  \  uu  have  told  her,"  he  said,  "  you  have  done  the  very  thing 


THE      earl's      daughter.  161 

wliich" — lie  stopped,  and  Lady  Charlton  said  eagerlj',  "  Blanche  1 
do  you  mean  that  she  knows  ?" 

"  All  that  I  would  have  kept  from  ber  at  any  sacrifice.  Frances, 
I  thought  that  I  could  have  trusted  you  better." 

Lady  Charlton  looked  extremely  pained,  and  the  coLjur 
rushed  to  ber  cheeks  as  she  said  hesitatingly,  "  It  w;is  not  I  who 
told  ber."     ^ 

"  No,"  exclaimed  the  earl,  "  it  was  not  you  ;  it  was  Maude. 
But  frc^m  whom  did  Maude  learn  such  facts  ?  and  who  put  it 
into  my  darling's  bead  to  inquire  ?" 

Lady  Charlton  recovered  from  her  embarrassment  when  this 
question  was  asked  reproachfully. 

"  You  are  still  speaking  mysteries,"  she  said ;  "  if  you  will 
say  clearly  what  you  refer  to,  I  will  give  you  the  best  explana- 
tion I  can." 

"  They  are  simple  facts,"  replied  the  earl,  sarcastically : 
"  Blanche  was  missing  this  morning  when  I  wanted  her ;  I  went 
to  ber  room,  and  found  her  in  an  agony  of  gTief.  AYhen  I  would 
have  forced  ber  to  tell  me  what  distressed  ber,  she  said — you 
know  what  she  said.  She  knew  it.  Iler  whole  life  is  embit- 
tered— her  happiness  is  blighted — ber  love  for  me — but  I  will 
not  think  of  that — I  dare  not." 

"And  Maude  told  ber?"  inquired  Lady  Charlton. 

"  Yes,  Maude  told  ber." 
•     "  And  wbflt  ?  how  much  does  Blanche  know  ?" 

"  L)o  you  think  I  could  bear  to  ask  ?"  exclaimed  the  earl,  bit- 
terly, "  Was  it  a  story  that  I  could  endure  to  have  the  details 
repeated ;  that  I  could  listen  patiently  whilst  my  child  described 
ber  own  misery  ?" 

"  It  might  have  been  as  well,"  said  Lady  Charlton,  coldly ; 
"you  might  have  spared  me  much  pain,  and  youi-self  much 
after-reproach  for  injustice.  Maude  has  beard  from  me  little 
beyond  what  all  the  world  is  acquainted  with.  AYbat  she  may 
have  guessed  or  learnt  from  other  sources  I  cannot  answer  for. 
She  is  of  an  inquisitive  disposition  ;  from  a  child  she  was 
strangely  interested  in  the  fate  of  my  most  unhappy  sister.  To 
satisfy  ber,  I  told  ber  the  bare  fact  of  her  melancholy  depres- 
sion of  spirits;  but  of  other  suffeiings," — and  Lady  Charlton's 
voice  became  eager,  and  her  eye  kindled  as  she  went  on — "  of 
neglect,  loneliness,  disappointed  afil-ction  ;  trials  which  crushed 
ber  ititi'lloct,  and  brought  ber  to  an  early  gra\  e,  I  said  nothing." 

Lord  liutherford  sank  upon  a  chair  and  groaned. 

"It  may  seem  cru(.'l  to  ujjbraid  you  now  with  an  error  of 


1 62  THE      K  A  R  L    S      DAUGHTER. 

intliiniciit,"  contiiniod  Lady  Charlton  ;  "but,  in  my  own  justifi- 
cation, I  must  remind  you  tliat  you  were  long  since  warned 
against  the  mistake  of  keejiing  from  Blanche  the  secret  of  her 
mother's  history." 

"  I  did  not  wish  to  keep  it  from  her,"  exclaimed  the  earl, 
starting  from  his  seat;  "But  I  would  have  prepared  her  for  it, 
gradually.  I  would,  yes,"  he  added,  his  voice  sinking  from  its 
tone  of  i)roud  excitement  into  an  accent  of  the  most  mournful 
tondorness,  "  I  would  have  won  her  to  myself, — I  would  have 
made  myself  her  all,  and  then  I  would  have  appealed  to  her 
love, — her  reverence, — her  devotion, — for  pardon." 

"  You  must  have  had  sympathies  in  common  first,"  said 
Lady  Charlton,  with  a  quiet  sarcasm  which  escaped  her  almost 
involuntaril}'. 

The  carl  writhed  under  the  censure  which  he  knew  was 
intended,  yet  he  answered  firmly,  "  We  have  many, — art,  and 
taste,  and  refinement." 

"  And  religion  !"'  added  Lady  Charlton. 

Lord  Jiutherford  bit  his  lip,  and  was  silent. 

"  That  is  the  key  to  her  atf'ections,"  continued  Lady  Charlton  ; 
"  without  it  I  fear  you  may  find  the  barrier  between  yon  greater 
than  you  are  aware  of." 

The  earl  regarded  her  steadily  as  if  he  would  have  said.  Do 
not  try  me  too  far, — but  Lady  Charlton  knew  lier  own  power — 
the  power  which  almost  necessarily  accompanies  the  knowledge 
of  a  strong  mind's  weakness — and  she  went  on,  "  If  it  were 
possible  to  humour  her  upon  the  point; — if  you  could,  at  what- 
ever sacrifice,  bring  yourself  even  to  appear" — but  the  earl 
broke  in  upon  the  observation. 

" Appear !^to  Blanche! — to  my  own  child! — appear  to  be 
what  I  am  not  ?  Oh  !  Frances,  liow  little  you  understand  us 
both !" 

"  Blanche,  at  least,  I  understand,"  said  Lady  Charlton  calmly 
— "  she  is  like  her  mother." 

The  name  acted  like  an  electric  shock  upon  Lord  Ruther- 
ford. "  Yes,"  he  exclaimed  shuddering,  "  like  her  in  form — in 
feature — in  mind — in  fate."  The  last  word  sank  into  a 
whisper. 

"  There  is  little  fear  of  it,"  replied  Lady  Charlton,  "  except  in 
your  own  imagination,  and  in  jK^ssible  circumstances,  which  are 
entirely  under  your  control.  Loneliness  and  want  of  sympathy 
preyed  upon  poor  Emily's  mind.  There  was  no  positive  here- 
diliiry  disease.     Her  case  might  be  the  case  of  any  one  in  the 


THE    earl's    daughter.  163 

same  situation.  Loneliness,  Blanche  will  never  feel ;  want  of 
symjiathy  she  may  not,  if " 

"If,"  repeated  the  earl,  bitterly.  "  I  tell  you,  Frances,  I  have 
not  the  power,  even  if  I  had  the  Avill,  to  deceive  my  sweet  child. 
Pure-minded,  simple,  transparent,  and  true  as  she  is,  the  very 
earnestness  of  her  own  feelings  must  make  her  alive  to  hypocrisy 
in  others.  "VVould  not  the  tone  of  my  voice — the  turn  of  my 
sentences, — would  not  every  action  of  my  life  betray  me  ?  No, 
better  iar  that  she  should  see  me  as  I  am — admire  me  for 
wbnt  I  am — even  hate  me — hate  me,  if  it  were  possible,  for 
what  I  am  not — than  be  the  dupe  of  professions  which  must, 
sooner  or  later,  be  discovered,  and  bring  wretchedness  upon  us 
both." 

"  As  you  will,"  replied  Lady  Charlton.  "  It  would  be 
useless  to  try  and  persuade  you,  that  I  do  not  wish  ycu  either 
to  deceive,  or  make  a  profession.  All  that  I  desire  is,  that  you 
should  not  shock  her — prejudices,  as  you  call  them — principles, 
as  I  call  them."  She  paused,  but  the  earl  was  silent.  "  You 
make  the  same  sacrifice  to  the  world  continually,"  pursued  Lady 
Charlton  ;  "  you  mix  with  persons  whom  you  dislike  ;  you  join 
in  amusements  which  do  not  interest  you." 

"  Yes,"  interrupted  the  earl  vehemently  ;  "  I  make  a  sacrifice 
to  the  world,  which  the  world  sanctions  and  understands.  I 
speak  its  own  language,  and  take  advantage  of  its  permitted 
customs.  It  Is  not  deceived  by  civilities  and  professions.  But 
religion — Frances,  I  was  never  a  hypocrite.  If  I  had  been,  I 
might  have  spared  myself  the  bitterness  of  this  hour." 

"I  think  you  are  unnecessarily  anxious,"  replied  Lady  Charlton, 

The  earl  did  not  notice  the  remark.  He  was  engaged  in  his 
own  reflections,  and  in  an  under  tone  he  said,  "  Poor  child  !  one 
could  almost  be  inclined  to  envy  her." 

"  Can  you  envy  what  you  consider  3rror  ?"  replied  Lady 
Charlton. 

"  Error  !"  repeated  the  earl,  musingly. 

"  You  think  it  oo,"  said  Lady  Charlton. 

lie  looked  up  quickly  :  "  Have  you  never,  Frances,  watched 
a  sunset,  and  seen  mountains,  and  islands,  and  glittering  lakes 
amongst  the  clouds,  and  looked  till  you  believed — till  you 
almost  knew  them  to  be  real  ?  So  have  I  watched  Blanche — 
dail}-,  hourly,  since  my  return.  She  has  been  to  me  a  vision  of 
beauty  and  jiurity  beyond  all  that  I  have  known,  or  could  have 
dreamt ;  and  I  have  gazed  upon  her  until  almost  I  could  jior* 
tuade  myself  that  her  enthusiasm  was  reality." 


1 04  T  II  K    earl's    daughter. 

"  It  is  ival,  doubtless,  to  a  certain  extent,"  re])lied  Lail}- 
Cliarlton.  "  lllanche  is  young,  and  a  little  carried  away  by 
(Vi'linijj ;  but  her  principles  are  unquestionably  sound  and  higjh  ; 
and  we  ought  to  be  most  grateful  to  Mrs.  Iloward  for  having 
niade  her  what  she  is." 

A  sudden  check  seemed  to  have  been  given  to  Lord  Ruther- 
ford's earnestness.  He  drew  himself  up  coldly,  and  said,  "  We 
have  wandered  very  far  from  our  first  subject.  I  should  be  glad 
to  be  quite  assured  that  you  have  not  disobeyed  my  wishes." 

"  You  are  really  provoking,"  replied  Lady  Charlton,  petu- 
lantly. "  I  could  never  have  taken  upon  myself  such  a  responsi- 
bility. Blanche  must  have  had  her  suspicions  previously  raised^ 
and  then  exaggerated  what  Maude  told  her."  Lady  Charlton 
stojiped,  and  after  considering  for  a  moment  added — "  You  told 
me  you  had  given  her  her  mother's  papei-s." 

"Yesterday;  it  was  an  impulse,  after  a  conversation,  a  few 
words  only,  which  passed  between  us.  I  felt  they  might 
interest  her,  for  I  saw  she  longed  for  sympathy,  and  I  thought 
they  might  be  something  of  a  bond  of  closer  union  between  us. 
But  I  had  long  before  determined  upon  doing  so  when  I  could 
summon  resolution." 

"  They  must  have  betrayed  the  secret,"  said  Lady  Chai-lton. 

"  Lp.possible !  There  were  a  few  letters  of  my  own,  including 
some  written  years  ago,  and  a  journal ;  you  must  remember  it. 
I  thought  it  might  please  Blanche,  but  there  was  little'  in  it 
beyond  extracts." 

*  Are  you  sure  that  was  all  ?"  inquired  Lady  Charlton. 

"  Certain.  I  destroyed  every  paper  which  was  in  any  way 
painful  before  I  left  England." 

"  Then  it  must  have  been  Blanche's  own  fancy,"  said  Lady 
Charlton,  "  or—" 

The  earl  turned  to  her  hastily  ;  "  Or  whom  ? — what?" 

"Or  Mrs  Wentworth  !" 

"  Yes,"  exclaimed  Lord  Rutherford,  as  if  the  idea  had  in  an 
instant  brought  conviction  to  his  mind ;  "  yes,  it  must  have  been 
her.  How  could  I  have  been  so  blind  ?  But  I  thought  she 
knew  my  wishes  through  you." 

"  I  wrote  to  her,"  said  Lady  Charlton,  "  when  you  first 
thought  of  returning  to  Rutherford,  impressing  upon  her  the 
necessity  of  caution.  Her  reply  was  stitf  and  unsatisfactory, 
like  everything  she  does  or  says  ;  but  I  certainly  could  not  have 
imagined  her  capable  of  telling  Blanche  what  you  wanted  to 
Loep  from  hor" 


THE    earl's    daughter.  165 

"  She  supposed  it  her  duty,  perhaps,"  said  Lord  Rutherford, 
witli  a  sneer.     "  She  is  very  iiiucli  bent  upon  duty." 

"  Her  own  and  other  persons,  too,  in  this  case,"  observed 
Lady  Charlton  ;  "  but  you  must  not  be  hard  upon  her.  Re- 
member, we  have  as  yet  only  suspicion." 

"  It  shall  be  certainty,  one  way  or  the  other,  soon,"  exclaimed 
the  earl  ;  aui  without  adding  another  word,  he  seized  his  hat, 
opened  the  window,  and  the  next  minute  was  walking  at  a 
rapid  ^ace  down  the  steep  path  which  led  to  the  rectory. 

Lady  Charlton  looked  after  him  for  a  few  seconds,  and  then 
murmuring  to  herself,  "  Impetuous  as  ever  !  but  I  have  diverted 
his  thoughts  for  the  present,"  she  went  to  seek  Maude,  and  give 
her  a  maternal  and  not  very  gentle  reproof,  for  the  extreme 
imprudence  which  had  led  her  to  divulge  focts,  only  a  portion 
of  which  had  as  yet  been  intended  to  reach  the  ears  of 
Blanche. 

Lord  Rutherford  and  Mrs.  "Wentworth  disliked  each  other,  as 
persons  must  do  who,  without  mutual  sympathy  or  respect, 
have  been  compelled  by  circumstances  to  learn  the  secrets  of 
each  other's  hves,  without  caring  to  know  the  secrets  of  the 
heart.  Years  before,  when  Loi-d  Rutherford  had  brought  his 
bride  to  hei  stately  home,  and  offered  her  luxury  and  gaiety, 
she  had  turned  from  all  to  seek  the  companionship  of  Mrs. 
Wentworth.  The  earl  was  not  jealous — he  did  not  love  suf- 
ficiently to  care  where  his  wife  found  happiness,  as  long  as  he 
was  not  called  upon  to  give  up  his  own  wishes  to  contribute  to 
it ;  but  he  chafed  at  the  strictness  of  Mrs.  Wentworth's  princi- 
ples, dreaded  her  influence,  and  was  repulsed  by  the  coldness 
of  her  manner — and  the  avei-sion  was  quickly  reciprocal.  If 
Mrs.  Wentworth  reverenced  the  Countess  of  Rutherford  for  her 
piety,  and  pitied  her  for  her  lonely  position  ;  she  could  scarcely 
fee!  cordial  towards  the  selfish,  worldly  husband,  who  by  civil 
unkindness  blighted  hei  hopes  and  mocked  her  affections.  And, 
as  years  went  on,  and  absence  and  neglect  did  their  fatal  work 
in  wrecking  not  only  the  peace,  but  the  mind  of  the  unhappy 
countess,  the  first  feeling  of  dislike  almost  necessarih^  deepened 
into  intensity. 

Ijut  that  time  was  long  gone  by.  The  Countess  of  Ruther- 
furd  was  resting  in  her  quiet  grave,  safe  from  the  weariness  of 
disappointment  and  the  bitterness  of  unrequited  love  ;  and  the 
earl  was  returned  to  his  home,  to  begin,  as  it  were,  a  new  life, 
And  repay  the  debt  which  he  owed  to  the,  memory  of  his  wife 
by  the  devoted  affection  which  he  lavished  upon    her   child. 


166  THE      EARLS      DAUGHTER. 

TLo  i>.ist  was  forgotten  ; — so  it  seemed  to  many  but  Liinsclf 
forgotten  by  the  countess's  relations ;  forgotten,  if  it  had  evei 
been  remembered,  by  the  world.  Yet,  was  it  so  ?— does  the 
tide  of  life  indeed  sweep  by  and  bear  away  all  traces  of  the  joys 
and  griefs,  the  good  and  evil,  of  our  vanished  years  ;  or  is  there, 
even  upon  eartli,  a  record  of  the  deeds  of  former  days,  written 
upon  the  memories  of  our  friends  and  companions,  and  bearing 
a  witness  which  few  can  recollect  and  feel  towards  us  as  if  such 
things  had  never  been  ? 

13ut  Lord  Itutherford  did  Mrs.  "Wentworth  great  injustice, 
when  he  considered  her  capable  of  biassing  the  mind  of  his 
daughter  in  any  way  against  himself;  or  even  of  endeavouring 
to  tix  her  aftections  upon  her  mother's  memory  at  his  expense. 
Even  if  Mrs.  Wentworth  had  felt  for  Blanche  as  she  had  once 
fidt  for  the  countess,  she  would  have  shrunk  from  such  an  act  as 
worse  than  cruelty.  But,  in  truth,  she  was  not  sufficiently 
attracted  by  the  gentle  girl,  who  seemed  to  have  no  will  but 
her  father's,  to  attempt  to  gain  an  influence  over  her.  She  was 
interested  in  Blanche  for  her  mother's  sake  and  for  Eleanor's ; 
but  being  a  person  of  strong  impulse  and  prepossessions,  and 
peculiarly  alive  to  the  impression  which  she  made  upon  others, 
she  could  not  help  seeing,  from  the  very  beginning  of  their 
acquaintance,  that  Blanche  was  not  likely  to  seek  her  confidence. 
This  was  an  offence  which  Mrs.  Wentworth  was  not  inclined 
easily  to  overlook.  It  awoke  a  sense  of  injustice,  as  if  some- 
thing was  denied  her  which  she  had  a  right  to  claim.  Her 
natural  stiffness  and  reserve  also  made  her  seek  for  the  opposite 
qualities  in  others;  and  symptoms  of  shyness,  especially  in 
young  people,  were  generally  attributed  to  some  instinctive 
difference  of  feeling,  caused  possibly  by  her  own  defect  of  man- 
ner, which  it  would  be  useless  to  endeavour  to  overcome.  Thus 
it  was  that,  when  Mrs.  Wentworth  was  met  with  more  than  her 
own  cordiality,  she  could  love,  and  love  intensel}' ;  but  when  she 
did  not  love,  she  was  indifferent,  and  not  unfrequently  pre 
judiced. 

Lord  Kutherford  knew  nothing  of  all  this.  He  was  not  an 
observer  of  human  nature  in  general;  and  seldom  took  the 
trouble  to  think  what  j^eople  were  like,  or  why  they  pleased  or 
displeased  him.  A  spoilt  child  from  infancy,  he  only  knew 
what  offended  his  taste,  or  shocked  his  self-esteem,  and  avoided 
it.  It  was  always  an  effort  to  hira  to  be  with  Mrs.  Wentworth, 
and  he  would  have  shunned,  instead  of  seeking,  an  interview,  if 
he  had  not  been  carried  forward   l)y  indignation  and  something 


THE    earl's    daughter.  1G7 

liVe  revenge.  For  it  is  pleasant  to  our  unclieckeil  natural 
instincts  to  have  a  clear  cause  of  complaint  against  a  jierson 
whom  we  dislike,  and  yet  respect ;  and,  by  the  time  the  earl 
had  reached  the  parsonage,  he  had  worked  himself  up  into  the 
persuasion,  not  only  that  the  accusation  against  Mi-s.  "Wentworth 
was  true,  but  that  no  extenuation  could  be  offered. 

Blanche  stw  him  pass  the  drawing-room  window  as  she  sat 
writing  her  letter  and  waiting  for  Eleanor,  but  she  did  not  go  to 
meet  J»im.  His  look  of  anguish  as  he  turned  away  from  her, 
when  in  their  short  morning  interview  she  told  him  the  cause 
of  her  distress,  was  still  present  to  her  recollection,  and  she 
dreaded  to  encounter  it  again.  In  her  simplicity,  she  could  not 
read  its  entire  meaning ;  but  it  had  warned  her  that  the  subject 
must  never  again  be  alluded  to,  unless  by  him.  'J'he  earl  was 
shown  into  Mrs.  Wentworth's  morning-room ;  and  through  the 
thin  partition  Blanche  could  hear  his  voice,  as  the  conversation 
began — first  formal,  and  subdued,  then  gradually  rising  into 
energy  and  excitement;  whilst  Mrs.  Wentworth's  answers 
Sv^med  only  rather  more  decided  than  usual.  The  interview 
was  soon  over ;  Blanche  heard,  as  she  supposed,  the  parting 
words,  and  a  pause  followed.  She  thought  her  father  was 
gone ;  but  as  she  drew  near  the  window  to  see,  she  again  caught 
Mrs.  Wentworth's  voice.  The  words  were  distinctly  audible — 
"  Your  lordship  must  forgive  me,  if  I  earnestly  warn  you  to  be 
cautious.  N*o  one  knows  better  than  myself  the  many  reasons 
for  being  so ;  and,  in  pity  to  your  child,  you  must  remember, 
that  the  germ  of  the  evil,  at  least,  may  be  hereditary." 

There  was  a  faint,  sharp  cry  of  exceeding  misery,  and  Blanche 
fell  senseless  to  the  ground. 


CHAPTER  XXVni. 

That  evening,  as  twilight  shades  were  gathering  over  the 
skv,  and  rejwse  was  settling  upon  the  lovely  valley  of  Ruther- 
ford— as  happy  children  were  returning  from  their  play,  and 
the  husbandman  was  preparing  to  enjoy  his  evening  meal,  and 
the  sleep  w  hich  "  to  the  labouring  man  is  sweet,  whether  he 
eat  little  or  much" — the  young  heiress  of  all  that  wealth, 
beauty,  and  prosperity  can  bestow,  lay  stretched  upon  her 
couch,  striving  to  chasten  her  rebellious  heart,  and  bring  every 
8 


IQS  THE     earl's    daughter. 

gloomy  thought,  and  fruitless  wish,  into  submission  to  tlie  will 
of  her  Maker. 

.Poor  Bhinche !  she  had  not  known,  till  that  hour,  that  it  was 
possible  to  feel  more  intensely  for  herself  than  for  others. 
Unseltish,  confiding,  humble-minded,  she  had  lived  for  her  fel- 
low-creatures, and  in  their  joys  and  sorrows  had  found  her  own. 
Hut  there  are  griefs  which  encompass  us  with  a  barrier  that 
shuts  out  human  sympathy,  and  forbids  us  to  tind  relief  in  the 
tliought  that  our  affliction  is  less  than  that  of  many  around  us. 
■'  The  heart  knoweth  its  own  bitterness  ;"  and  in  those  seasons 
of  trial  it  is  incapable  of  estimating  comparative  wretchedness. 

Blanche  lay  quite  still,  her  hands  clasped  tightly  together, 
and  her  eyes  firmly  shut;  occasionally  her  lips  moved,  and  the 
momentary  contraction  of  the  forehead,  or  a  nervous  action  of 
the  fingers,  gave  indication  of  some  passing  thought  of  misery, 
but  the  expression  of  the  face  was  that  of  calm  hopelessness. 
There  was  no  one  near  her,  no  one  watching  her ;  the  one  wish 
she  had  expressed  was  for  solitude;  solitude  with  Ilim  "to 
whom  all  hearts  are  open,  and  from  whom  no  secrets  are  hid." 

The  door  opened  slowly,  and  Lord  Rutherford  stole  gently 
to  her  side.  Blanche  just  opened  her  eyes  and  closed  them 
again  instantly.  lie  drew  near  and  knelt  down  beside  her,  and 
took  her  clammy  hand  in  his,  and  she  turned  her  face  towards 
him  and  tried  to  smile ;  but  the  parched  lips  quivered,  and  a 
mist  gathei'ed  over  her  soft  dark  eyes,  and  then  the  bitter  tears 
flowed  silently  and  fast. 

"  Blanche,"  said  the  earl,  "  are  you  better  ?" 

His  voice  was  quite  changed ;  low  and  husky.  Blanche 
raised  herself  and  put  her  arm  round  his  neck,  and  kissed  him ; 
but  she  could  not  speak. 

"  My  poor  child,"  he  said,  "  they  told  me  you  were  asleep." 

Blanche  shook  her  head,  and  answered  faintly,  "  that  she  had 
been  trying  to  sleep,  but  it  was  of  no  use." 

"  You  must  have  an  opiate,"  observed  the  earl ;  "  I  shall  send 
for  one,"  and  he  touched  the  bell-rope. 

"  No  opiates  for  me,  dear  papa,"  said  Blanche,  stopping 
him  ;  "  they  can  do  nothing — no  one — nobody" — she  paused, 
and  put  her  hand  to  her  head,  as  if  to  check  the  swift  torturing 
current  of  thought  which  was  about  to  rush  over  her. 

"  Blanche,  can  you  forgi\e  me  V  and  the  proud  earl  hid  his 
face  upon  her  pillow,  and  sobbed  like  a  child. 

"  Forgive  you,  my  own  papa ;  you  who  have  been  so  kind, 
bo  '^no(\ :  what  can  I  have  to  forgive  !"     And  ajrain  she  kissed 


THE      EARLS      DAVGIITJIR.  169 

him  and  foiully  smoothed  his  hair,  and  whispered  how  dear  lie 
was  to  her  ;  but  the  anguish  of  remorse  w;is  too  keen  for  such 
consolation. 

"Stay,  Blanche!  stay,"  he  exclaimed,  putting  asidi  her 
hand,  and  rising  with  a  sudden  eftijrt  at  self  control ;  '•  hear  me 
patiently,  calml\',  if  you  can;  let  me  tell  you  all," 

"  Yes,  all;'1f  you  please,  if  you  will,"  said  Blanche,  with  a 
gentle  but  sad  smile ;  "  that  is  the  greatest  kindness ;  and, 
papa, -4  will  try  to  bear  it." 

"  And  if  it  should  be  too  much  V  repeated  the  earl,  thought- 
fully. "  They  wished  me  not :  your  aunt  says  it  is  unwise. 
But,  Blanche,  neither  you  nor  I  can  endure  suspense." 

"  No,  indeed ;  thank  you  so  much  for  sparing  me.  Then, 
papa,  it  IS — hereditary  ?"  Her  breath  came  quick  and  faint, 
and  her  glassy  eyes  rested  upon  her  father's  face  with  a  look 
of  intense  eagerness,  which  made  him  turn,  shuddering  from 
her  gaze. 

The  earl  paused  for  one  instant.  "  We  think  not ;  we  hope 
not;  only — ^" 

"  Only  you  fear,"  said  Blanche,  quite  calmly. 

"  No,  no,"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  do  not  fear  ;  others  may,  but  I 
do  not.  Blanche,  you  shall  hear  my  story,  and  be  comforted, 
even  though  it  be  at  the  sacritice  of  your  love  for  me."  lie 
sat  down  by  her,  and,  without  daring  to  look  at  her,  went  on  : 
"  Your  motlier  was  insane — I  would  not  try  to  conceal  or  miti- 
gate the  fact — for  many  months  before  her  death  ;  and  I — I 
am  said  to  have  been  the  cause.  Yes,  turn  from  me,  and  hate 
me,"  he  exclaimed,  as  Blanche  involuntarily  caught  away  the 
hand  which  he  had  taken  in  his  ;  "  it  is  only  what  I  deserve  ; 
but  bear  with  what  I  have  to  say  in  my  defence.  There  is  no 
liereditary  insanity  in  her  family,  but  there  is  a  peculiarity, — a 
tendency  to  morbid  melancholy,  on  the  female  side — not  on 
that  cf  your  aunt,  they  were  but  half  sisters.  It  is  this  melan- 
choly which  I  am  accused  of  having  aggravated  ;  it  may  be, 
truly.  But,  Blanche,  even  for  this — a  grievous  sin  in  the  eye 
of  man — it  is  possible  that  some  extenuation  may  be  found  in 
the  sight  of  God.  Men  call  me  cold  and  forbidding;  I  am  so 
now,  but  I  was  not  so  always.  Once,  Blanche,  I  was  loving, 
tender-hearted,  enthusiastic,  even  as  yourself.  I  was  young 
then.  I  believed  the  world  was  made  for  happiness,  and  I 
thought  that  I  had  found  it.  Look  !"  and  he  drew  forth  a 
small  locket,  from  which  the  hair  that  liad  been  placed  in  it 
was  gijue.     "  This  was  a  gift  frorr   one  who  was  to  have  bceu 


170  THE      earl's      PAUGHTER. 

my  wife.  It  is  a  symbol  of  the  lieart  she  offered  me  -empty 
valueless.  She  deceived  me ;  and,  in  the  madness  of  my  di* 
appointment,  I  married  another.  There  -^vas  my  first  offence — ■ 
the  offence  for  which  I  cannot  forgive  myself,  and  for  which  the 
])unishment  of  years  has  fallen  npon  me."  Blanche  stretched 
out  her  hand,  and  ao-ain  he  took  it  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips, 
and  continued  :  "  Your  mother  had  been  known  to  me  from 
inraiicy.  We  had  played,  and  walked,  and  sung  together,  and 
outwardly  shared  many  joys  and  sorrows  ;  but  we  had  never 
suited  each  other.  So  at  least  I  thought  till  the  hour  of  my 
great  trial  ;  then,  for  the  first  time,  I  discovered  from  the  extent 
of  her  compassion  that  we  had  sympathies  in  common.  Yet  I 
did  not  really  love  her  ;  I  knew  that  I  did  not.  I  felt  that  our 
natures  and  our  tastes  were  in  their  foundation  totally  dis- 
similar, lint  I  was  so  lonely — so  unutterably  wretched ;  it 
was  such  a  relief  to  be  able  to  talk  of  my  misery,  that,  forgetting 
how  by  the  very  act  of  marriage  I  must  shut  out  all  memory 
of  the  past,  I  offered  myself,  and  was  accepted.  One  great 
mistake  !  Oh,  Blanche  !  how  it  mars  all  hope  of  goodness  and 
greatness  in  life.  From  that  hour  I  was  an  altered  man  ;  bound 
with  an  irrevocable  chain ;  having  lost  the  prospect  of  comfort 
in  domestic  life,  and  imable  to  rouse  myself  to  interest  in  puV>lic 
matters.  For  your  mother, — let  me  speak  of  her  as  she  was," 
he  said,  gently,  as  Blanche  heaved  a  sigh  ;  "  if  I  seem  to  blame 
her,  remember  that  I  am  seeking  to  excuse  myself  to  her  child ; 
your  mother  was  not  a  person  to  be  blind  to  the  real  state  of 
my  heart.  She  had  a  craving  for  affection,  and  a  keen  insight 
into  the  feelings  of  others.  When  she  found  herself  disap- 
pointed, she  sank  into  a  torpid,  dreary  melancholy,  the  more 
unendurable  for  us  both,  because  the  occasion  of  it  was  never 
alluded  to  by  either.  Whether  by  a  different  line  of  conduct 
she  might  at  length  have  won  my  lo\'e,  I  cannot  say,  but  she 
seemed  to  have  no  hope  of  it  herself;  for  she  shut  herself  up 
from  me.  When  I  bi-ought  friends  to  the  castle,  she  pleaded 
illness,  and  withdrew  from  them  ;  and  when  I  took  her  into 
society,  she  gave  way  to  a  depression  of  spirits  which  awoke 
constant  remark."  lie  paused,  watching  the  effect  of  Irs 
woi-ds  ;  but  Blanche  averted  her  face. 

'*  That  is  all  my  complaint  of  her,"  he  continued,  hurriedly. 
"  She  was  too  good,  too  high,  for  me.  If  she  had  been  more 
earthly  we  might  have  been  happier.  At  least,  I  should  not 
have  to  reproach  myself  with  having  been  the  murderer  of  an 
angel's  peace." 


THE    earl's    daughter,  171 

"  She  was  very  good,  then  V  murmured  Bhinchc. 

"  Good  ! "  he  rephed  ;  "  I  never  knew  her  equal  upon  eai  th. 
until — "  and  he  stooped  and  imprinted  a  kiss  on  Bhmche's 
burning  forehead.  "Yes,  she  w;is  a  marvel,  a  miracle;  but, 
Blanche,  even  for  that  very  cause  we  were  unhappy.  It  was  a 
goodness  which  I  could  not  comprehend ;  for  it  was  exalted 
above  inlirniity  itself,  and  yet  saw  evil  in  the  most  natural  pur- 
suits of  others.  A  life  of  entire  seclusion  from  the  world  was 
her  ideal  of  real  excellence,  and  she  tried  to  carry  it  out,  and 
did  so.  I  do  not  say  she  was  wrong,"  he  added,  as  Blanche 
looked  up  with  a  disappointed  expression  :  "  it  may  have  been, 
I  beheve  it  was,  my  own  doing.  This  is  not  a  moment  for  con- 
cealment: I  drove  her  to  it.  M}"  principles  grieved  her,  and  I 
did  not  try  to  soften  them ;  and  then  she  grew  more  strict,  and 
tbe  evil  increased.  We  led  this  life  for  nearly  four  years,"  con- 
tinued the  earl ;  "  and  how  wretched  it  was  for  us  both  I  can 
never  describe.  I  had  friends  about  me  ;  but  they  gave  me  no 
real  comfort ;  and  your  poor  mother  took  such  an  aversion  to 
them,  that  she  made  it,  at  last,  a  point  of  duty  to  avoid  them. 
Her  only  companion  was  Mrs.  Wentworth.  I  doubted  then 
whether  the  intimacy  was  wise  ;  I  am  sure,  now,  that  it  was  not. 
Mrs.  Wentworth  aggravated,  instead  of  soothing,  what  was 
amiss.  She  made  your  mother  think  worse  of  me  than  I  de- 
served, and  fostered  her  strict  notions  till  they  became  absurd. 
But  you  were  born,  Blanche ;  my  own  precious  child  :  it  seemed 
a  new  era  in  my  existence  ;  a  bright  hope,  and  interest  for  the 
future.  People  said  that  I  w;is  disappointed  because  you  were 
not  a  boy  ;  but  they  did  not  know  me.  If  I  was  grave  after- 
wards it  was  not  for  that  reason.  Your  mother's  spirits  for  a 
time  rallied  so  much  that  I  began  to  think  she  might  soon  be- 
come more  to  me  than  I  had  ever  fancied  possible.  I  tried  to 
induce  her  to  join  more  in  society,  and  proposed  that  we 
should  travel.  I  sketched  out  a  plan,  and  chose  a  party  to 
accompany  us  :  she  took  some  pleasure,  or  at  least  interest,  in 
the  idea  at  first ;  but  when  we  came  to  enter  into  detail,  all  our 
former  differences  revived.  Two  persons  more  diametrically 
0|i])0site  in  character  and  taste  could  never  have  been  united  ; 
and  unfortunately  her  prejudices  were  principles,  and  she  would 
never  yield  them.  Yet  she  loved  me,  Blanche ;  through  all, 
she  loved  me.  It  is  the  bitterest  thought  of  all,  now  that  the 
past  is  irrevocable.  Her  very  wish  to  travel  with  me  alone,  to 
Ki^ep  me  away  from  those  whom  she  thought  likely  to  encourage 
me   in   error,  arose  from  love:    but  it  irritated   me  beyond 


h72  THE    earl's    daughter. 

I'luliiranco  ;  and — "  the  carl  ]iaui?ecl,  and  moved  from  his  seat  as 
it"  thus  to  escape  tlie])ain  of  further  recital. 

Blanche  stopped  him.  She  said,  in  a  clear,  firm  tone,  "Pa]ia, 
you  will  tell  Tiie  all  now  ;  we  shall  both  be  happier."  And  like 
a  humble  child  he  sat  down  again,  and  went  on. 

"  Yes,  I  will  tell  all.  Blanche,  you  are  right ;  if  we  are  ever 
to  know  peace  on  earth,  it  must  be  by  openness.  Yet  you  will 
shrink  from  me,  even  as  I  shrink  from  myself;  for  I  was  cruel 
to  her — your  mother  !  the  mother  of  my  only  treasure.  It  was 
on  a  stormy,  blustering  day — how  well  I  remember  it ! — I  had 
been  absent  all  the  morning,  riding  with  a  party  of  friends, — 
some  of  whom  she  particuhirly  disliked.  Perhaps  their  influ- 
ence was  not  good,  at  least  it  did  not  work  for  good  on  that 
day.  I  returned  home  in  better  spirits  than  usual,  and  resolved 
to  show  myself  independent,  and  insist  vipon  your  mother's 
giving  up  her  prejudices  and  going  with  us  abroad.  I  found  her 
in  her  favorite  room — the  same  which  you  were  in  yesterday. 
She  scarcely  ever  left  it,  except  to  take  her  meals  ;  she  was  sit- 
ting as  usual,  working,  with  the  Bible  open  before  her.  I  recol- 
lect she  told  me  that  she  was  glad  I  had  come,  and  that  the 
day  had  seemed  long.  We  entered  into  conversation,  and  from 
her  manner,  at  first,  I  fancied  it  a  favorable  moment  for  again 
insisting  upon  my  wishes.  She  listened  patiently  wdiilst  I  urged 
the  })leasure  it  would  give  mc,  and  reminded  her  of  a  wife's 
duty  ;  but  I  saw  by  the  expression  of  her  face,  as  soon  as  the 
subject  was  named,  that  her  resolution  was'  immoveable.  If  I 
would  go  alone  she  would  accompany  me  ;  but  on  no  other  con- 
dition. The  very  fact  of  her  silence  exasperated  me  ;  I  could 
have  better  borne  a  torrent  of  words,  than  that  still,  fixed  look 
of  determination.  I  upbraided  her  with  inconsistency  and 
neglect  of  the  duty  she  owed  me ;  and  then,  for  the  first  time, 
she  poured  forth  her  long-hidden  griefs.  They  were  true  and 
real.  I  had  disappointed  her  affections,  and  treated  her  with 
coldness,  and  forced  upon  her  society  which  she  abhorred  ;  but 
I  was  too  proud  to  bear  it :  and,  in  my  indignation,  I  told  her 
that  it  w;is  better  we  should  part.  Tlie  words  were  no  sooner 
uttered  than  a  sudden  change  passed  over  her  ;  she  stood  before 
me,  a  silent,  colorless  statue  ;  her  limbs  rigid,  her  eyes  fixed  on 
vacancy.  I  spoke  to  her,  but  she  took  no  notice ;  and  even 
reproach — for  I  ventured  upon  it  to  excite  her — had  no  effect. 
I  was  more  frightened  than  I  chose  to  acknowledge,  but  I  had 
iio  doubt  that  quietness  would  restore  her  ;  and,  ringing  for  her 
uiaid,  I  left  her.     Mrs.  Wentworth  met  me  in  the  passage.     1 


THE      E  A  li  L    S      DAUGHTER. 


173 


was  bewildered  and  conscience-stricken,  but  I  could  not  endtire 
that  she  should  see  any  symptoms   of  humiliation  ;  and  being 
determined  to  tell  my  own  tale,  I  stopped  her,  and  related  in 
few  words  what  had  passed,    attributing   your    poor    mother'^ 
change  of  manner  to  obstinate  resolution.     '  My  will,'  I  said, 
•  was  irrevocably  fixed ;  as  I  could  not  make  her  happy,  I  was 
certain  it  wa^  better  for  both  of  us  to  part.'     Mrs.  Went  worth 
received  the  announcement  with  her  usual  cold  stoicism,  and 
merelv  asking  me  where  she  should  find  your  mother,  went  to 
her  room.     I  joined  my  friends,  for  the  thought  of  solitude  w^as 
dreadful  to  me.     I  had  such  horrible  misgivings,  which  I  could 
not  subdue.     After  the  lapse  of  about  an  hour,  I  sent  to  inquire 
for  your  mother ;  they  brought  me  word  that  Mrs.  Wentworth 
was  with  her,   and  that  she  wished  to  remain  quiet.     Can  you 
believe,  Blanche,  that  I  was  irritated  by  this  ?     After  all  my 
indifference  and  cruelty,  I  hated  the  thought  of  Mrs.  Went- 
worth's  being  her  com})anion.     I  fancied  how  they  w^ould  talk 
of  me,  andblame    me ;    and  I  had  pictured  to  myself  des- 
pair and  anger,  rather  than  quietness.      Hitherto   I  had  tri- 
umphed in  theknowledge  of  my  power  over  your  poor  mother's 
aflfection  ;  perhaps,  but  for  that,  I  should  never  have  tried  her 
so  far ;  but  the  seclusion  and  calmness  reduced  me  to  nothing. 
I  was  determined,  however,  not  to  betray  what  was  going  on  ; 
our  party  was  as  gay  as  usual,  and  we  dined  out ;  and  in  the 
course  of  the  evening,  as  the  plan  for  a  continental  tour  was 
again  brought  under  discussion,  I  was   induced  to  say  that  I 
would  not  "let  anything  interfere  longer  with  the  scheme,   but 
that  I  would  be  ready  to  start  in  a  few  days.     In  my  heart,  I 
hoped  that  this    determination    of  purpose  would   bring    your 
mother  to  reason,  and  that  a  reconciliation  would  De  the  conse- 
quence.    But  it  was  otherwise  ordered,  Blanche,"  and  the  earl's 
voice  became  tremulous  and  hollow ;  "  I  never  saw  her  again  ; 
never,  until   eight  months  afterwards,  she   lay  dressed  for  her 
coffin,  apparently  the   same  colorless  image  from  which  I  had 
parted." 

"  Yet  it  was  not  all  my  fault,"  continued  the  earl,  more 
calmly ;  "  Mrs.  Wentworth  may  have  acted  for  the  best ;  I 
have  tried  to  believe  that  she  did ;  but  she  played  a  cruel  part. 
She  found  your  poor  mother  stunned  at  what  had  passed,  and 
thought  it  right  not  to  run  the  risk  of  allowing  her  to  seo  me ; 
but,  instead  of  telling  me  of  her  real  state,  and  so  awakening 
my  compassion,  she  sent  me  messages,  which  made  me  think 
your  mother  cold  and  obstinate :  and  soon  so  exasperated  me 


174  TIIK       EARL    S      DAUGHTER. 

tliat  the  next  day  I  set  ofF  for  London,  and  sent  her  word  tliat  1 
was  upon  tlie  point  of  leaving  England.  I  think  Mrs.  Weiit- 
wortli  saw  her  error  at  hist;  at  least  she  must  have  been 
coiuinced  that  she  had  miscalculated  the  amount  of  your  poor 
mother's  strength  of  mind,  for  it  was  gone  then  ;  the  little  that 
had  remained  from  the  time  when  I  first  spoke  of  separation 
Hod,  when  she  knew  that  I  had  actually  left  her.  She  became 
— oh  !  Blanche,  you  must  not  ask  me  to  tell  you  what;  I  would 
not  have' you  know  or  think  of  it."  He  rose  from  his  seat  an<.l 
paced  the  room,  and  Blanche  closed  her  eyes  and  prayed.  "  It 
is  not  hereditary,  you  see — it  cannot  be  hereditary,"  continued 
the  earl,  drawing  near  her  again,  and  speaking  rapidly  ;  "you 
were  tlu-n  nearly  a  year  old.  Who  gave  you  the  notion  that  it 
might  be?" 

"  Only  Mrs.  Wentworth  in  tliose  few  words,"  said  Blanche, 
trying  to  keep  under  every  symptom  of  agitation. 

"  My  evil  fate  !  "  exclaimed  the  earl ;  "  it  is  she  who  has  been 
the  destroyer  of  every  hope.  It  must  have  been  a  letter 
to  her  that  you  told  me  you  had  read ;  yet  I  thought  I  had 
burnt  all." 

"  The  letter  did  not  exactly  frighten  me,"  said  Blanclic  ;  "  it 
only  made  me  unhappy  ;  for  it  was  very  miserable." 

"  It  must  have  been  written  towards  the  last,"  said  the  earl ; 
"  she  was  better  then,  but  not  happier.  Would  to  God  that  I 
could  think  so !  There  again  I  did  her  grievous  wrong ;  yet 
not  entirely  intentionally.  The  peojile  about  her  sent  me  word 
at  first  that  she  was  ill,  but  they  said  little  of  the  circumstances. 
It  was  Mrs.  Wentworth's  great  aim  to  keep  all  private.  I  do 
her  the  justice  to  believe  from  good  intention — a  regard  to  pub- 
lic opinion,  and  the  feelings  of  the  family,  and  a  dread  lest  my 
return  might  do  harm  instead  of  good.  She  devoted  herself  to 
your  mother,  and  scarcely  any  one  else  saw  her :  when  at  last 
the  unha'opy  fact  became  more  certainly  irremediable  and  more 
generally  suspected,  Mrs.  Wentworth  wrote,  still,  however, 
vaguely,  advising  me  to  return  for  the  sake  of  my  own  peace 
of  mind;  but  that  was  all.  I  did  not  understand  her  allusion, 
and  I  desired  a  message  from  your  mother,  which  she  was  in  no 
state  to  give.  Yet,  I  will  not  excuse  myself;  I  would  not  know 
what  I  might  have  known.  I  did  not  learn  because  I  would 
not  inquire.  But  the  shock  came  at  last.  I  was  at  Venice,  just 
returned  from  wandering  in  the  Tyrol,  and  planning  a  further 
tijur  in  the  East.  Letters  were  brought  me  from  England, 
and  I  opened  them  carelessly,  for  I  expected   nothing  more 


1 


THE      earl's      daughter.  lYp 

tlian  I  ha.l  received  for  many  weeks.  She  was  dying : — hei 
reason  had  returned,  but  she  was  dying.  The  one  longing  wish 
which  haunted  her,  was  to  see  me  and  forgive  me.  Bhinche, 
she  may  have  forgiven  me  in  Heaven  ;  but  I  was  never  permitted 
to  learn  it  from"  her  own  lips  on  earth.  Two  hours  before  I 
reached  Rutherford  she  died." 

There  wa^  a  silence  of  many  moments.  It  was  broken  by 
Blanche.  "  Papa,"  she  said,  "  you  have  made  me  happier ;  will 
you  not  be  happier  yourself  I  " 

Lord  Rutherford  did  not  trust  liimself  to  look  up;  le  had 
leant  his  head  upon  her  ])i!low,  and  she  felt  the  agitated  I: eating 
of  his  pulse  as  his  hand  rested  upon  hers. 

"  Papa,"  she  said  again,  "  may  I  tell  vou  what  I  really 
feel  ?  " 

He  did  not  answer,  and  she  went  on. 

"  I  was  frightened  this  morning,  for  I  was  selfish  ;  I  had  hor- 
rible thoughts  about  myself,  and  I  was  afraid — it  was  very 
wrong,  but  I  thought  there  was  something  more  dreadful  about 
— about  you.  I  leel  so  sorry  now,  and  I  am  not  unhap2:)y ;  I 
can  trust,  and  I  will  try  not  to  think  of  what  may  be." 

"  May  be — may  be,"  exclaimed  the  earl,  passionately  ;  "  I 
will  never  have  those  words  repeated  again." 

"  Yes ;  may  be,  dear  papa,"  said  Blanche,  firmly ;  "  for  it 
may  be  the  will  of  God,  and  then  we  would  neither  of  us 
murmur."  - 

Lord  Rutherford  rose  impatiently ;  but  Blanche  detained  him 
with  a  look  of  the  most  earnest  entreaty  for  his  assent,  and 
•\dded,  "  We  could  not  think  it  hard  if  it  was  ordered ;  could 
we?" 

"  I^ol  hard  !  "  and  the  earl  smiled  scornfully ;  "  not  cruel,  that 
my  innocent  child  should  suffer  1 " 

Blanche  sighed  heavily ;  yet  it  was  only  a  momentary  feeling 
of  despair,  and  again  gently  and  seriously  she  said,  "  I  can  trust 
and  hope,  and  try  to  be  happy ;  and  if  I  wisli  it,  will  not  you 
do  so  likewise  •     You  are  so  very  kind  always." 

The  earl's  eyes  glistened ;  "  1  would  do  all  in  my  power,  my 
child,"  he  saidj  "  for  your  sake,  and  for  my  own.  Oh,  Blanche, 
you  little  know  the  weary  life  that  has  been  my  punishment 
since  those  fearful  days.  If  sackcloth  and  ashes  could  atone,  aa 
men  fondly  deem,  for  their  offences,  there  should  have  been  no 
greater  penitent  on  earth  than  him  whom  men  have  called  the 
proud  Earl  of  Rutherford.  But  I  have  atoned,  and  I  will 
Uone,  in  the  only  way  left.     When  kneeling  by  your  mother's 


176  THE    earl's    daughter. 

coflin,  I  vowed  to  rodeom  the  past  by  the  sacrifice  of  every  wish 
of  my  lieart  to  the  happiness  of  her  child  ;  and  that  vow,  in 
the  sight  of  God,  I  now  repeat  to  you.  Ask  what  you  will, 
IJlanche — do  what  you  will — it  shall  be  granted  and  allowed  ; 
only  lot  me  feel  that  the  curse  which  I  have  bVought  upon  my- 
self is  revoked — that  the  visitation  which  has  once  been  sent 
upon  my  house  will  not  return  to  it  in  judgment  again." 

Blanche  caught  her  father's  hand ;  but  he  turned  away,  and 
in  a  lirmer  and  altered  voice  entreated  her  to  rest  for  the 
present,  and,  if  possible,  to  exert  herself  so  as  to  appeal  at  the 
dinner  table.  "  We  may  understand  each  other,  but  there  is 
no  need  for  others  to  understand  us,"  he  said,  as  he  left  the 
room ;  and  Blanche,  though  longing  for  farther  conversation, 
dared  not  ask  him  to  remain. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

A  GAY  party  was  assembled  on  the  lawn  at  Senilhurst. 
Lady  Charlton  and  a  few  elderly  ladies  and  middle-aged 
gentlemen,  chaperoning  an  assemblage  of  younger  ones. 
Luncheon  was  just  ended  ;  some  guests  were  departing  ;  some, 
who  were  staying  in  the  house,  were  settling  rides  and  drives 
for  the  afternoon.  Lady  Charlton  was  making  herself  agree- 
able, as  she  always  did  in  her  own  house.  There  could  not  be 
a  more  easy,  imaffected,  kind-hearted  manager  for  every  one, — 
quite  unequalled,  apparently ;  for  she  was  good-humoured, 
sym])athizing,  and  considerate,  with  just  enough  strictness  and 
particularity  to  suit  sober-minded  people ;  and  just  sufficient 
vivacity  to  enjoy  and  keep  up  the  mirth  of  the  more  thought- 
less. And  Senilhurst  was  precisely  the  place  in  which  Lady 
Charlton  could  show  herself  to  advantage.  There  were  no  deep 
windows,  suggesting  retirement  and  reflection  ;  no  antiquated 
pieces  of  furniture,  with  traditional  stories  attached  to  them ; 
no  haunted  chambers  or  dark  melancholy  passages.  It  was  a 
briglit,  smiling,  sunshiny  house,  large  and  handsome,  built  on 
the  side  of  a  hill  facing  the  south.  There  was  a  genial  south- 
ern aspect  over  everything  about  it.  Greenhouse  plants 
flourished  in  the  open  air ;  vines  were  trained  over  trellised 
work,  and  formed  green  arches  and  shady  walks;  the  sloping 
lawn  was  smooth  and  soft  as  velvet;  the  clear  stream  of  watiT 
reflected  every  loaf  and  branch  of  the  large  beech  and  ash  ti  H>a 


THE      earl's      daughter.  17T 

which  i^rew  on  its  banks.  At  a  season  when  ahnost  every  one 
else  was  sighing  at  the  thought  that  summer  was  over,  Ladj- 
Charlton  was  exhibiting  her  garden  in  full  beauty.  It  was  a 
triumi>h  she  peculiarly  enjoyed,  for  it  involved  no  offensive 
vanity,  and  Lady  Charlton  shrank  from  all  personal  display, 
[t  was  so  pleasant  to  hear  the  different  remarks  made  upon  the 
charming  situation — the  splendid  colours — the  beautiful  out- 
lines, couched  with  the  suggestion  that  nature  had  done  much, 
but  art  had  done  still  more ;  and  Lady  Charlton  felt  herself  so 
unpretending  and  indifferent,  in  the  midst  of  such  delicate 
homao-e  to  her  taste,  and  was  so  courteous  and  modest ;  in  fact, 
she  became  quite  young  in  her  garden. 

"  You  must  be'  entirely  spoilt  for  other  places,"  suggested 
Colonel  Lorton,  a  new  aeqi.amtance,  and  a  man  of  large  for- 
tune, who  was  endeavouring  to  ingratiate  himself  with  Lady 
Charlton  for  the  sake  of  a  rather  idle  and  wilful  son. 

"  Every  spot  has  its  peculiar  beauty,"  was  the  careless  reply. 
"  Senilhurst  is  certainly  pretty ;  but,  Colonel  Lorton,  you  are 
not  o-oing  to  leave  us  this  afternoon.  The  riding  party  reckoned 
upon  your  assisting  them  in  ex^tloring  the  Warham  Woods." 

Colonel  Lorton  bowed,  but  regretted  that  he  was  under  a 
special  engagement.  If  he  might  be  allowed — if  it  Avould  not 
be  an  intrusion  to  leave  his  son  as  his  representative — he  thought, 
indeed  he  was  quite  sure,  that  he  would  be  a  most  safe  guide. 

Lady  Charlton  felt  it  necessary  to  be  slightly  distant  and 
hesitating  in  her  manner  of  conferring  a  favour  which  she  had 
determined  upon  beforehand.  "  Of  course,"  she  said,  "  every 
one  would  be  glad  of  such  an  escort.  It  was  just  possible  that 
her  daughters  might  be  obliged  to  give  up  their  hoi-ses  to  some 
friends,  but  that  would  make  no  difference  to  Mr.  Lorton — and 
she  would  immediately  inquire  what  was  settled."  And  Lady 
Charlton  glided  away  to  insist  upon  Adelaide's  joining  the 
Warham  expedition,  at  all  events. 

The  party  set  off ; — a  pleasant,  merry  one.  Lady  Charlton 
watched  them  as  they  rode  through  the  park,  and  congratulated 
herself  on  her  good  management.  Mr.  Lorton  might  be  a  little 
sillv,  a  little  dissipated ;  but  he  had  family  and  fortune  in  his: 
favour.  The  intimacy  might  or  might  not  have  results — that 
was  not  the  question  ;  but  it  would  amuse  for  the  moment,  and 
drive  away  all  thought  of  Mr.  Wentworth  ;  and  though  Lady 
Cliarlt(jn  could  not  but  own  to  herself  that  it  was  a  balance  of 
evil,  what  was  to  be  done  ?  Adelaide  was  so  giddy  and  hcad- 
etrong  there  was  no  possibilitv  of  keeping  her  out  of  mischief, 


178  THE    earl's    daughter. 

except  by  skilful  management.  Princiijles  slv?  did  not  anc 
could  not  understand,  and  if  it  was  not  a  veiy  high-minded, 
delicate  species  of  domestic  diplomacy,  it  was  only  the  way  of 
the  world  ;  and  people  who  live  in  the  world  nmst  follow  the 
maxims  and  customs  of  the  world. 

Lady  Ch;irlton  congratulated  herself  upon  her  cleverness,  and 
went,  with  a  lighter  heart,  to  inquire  into  the  movements  of  the 
remainder  of  her  visitors.  Two  riding-horses  were  still  standing 
at  a  side-entrance  ;  and  she  heard  Lord  Rutherford  ask  if  any 
one  had  seen  Lady  Blanche. 

Lady  Charlton  went  up  to  him  :  "  You  are  not  waiting  for 
Blanche,  are  you  ?  She  is  gone,  I  believe.  I  am  nearly  sure 
she  was  one  of  the  Warham  party." 

"  She  has  changed  her  mind  then  very  suddenly,"  replied 
thp  earl ;  "  an  hour  since  we  settled  to  ride  together." 

"  Oh  !  but  of  course  that  w:is  all  nonsense.  AYhen  the 
Warham  Woods  were  talked  of,  you  could  not  expect  her  to 
keep  to  a  first  engagement.  And  it  would  not  be  right — you 
must  not  really  be  so  exacting." 

"  I  wish  her  only  to  do  as  she  likes,"  replied  the  earl  gravely ; 
"she  told  me  she  preferred  riding  alone  with  me." 

"  But,  my  dear  Rutherford,  you  don't  surely  take  literally  all 
that  the  poor  child  says.  She  is  so  devoured  by  duty,  that  she 
has  not  space  left  for  any  thought  of  jdeasure  ;  and  therefore 
we  must  think  for  her.  Just  fancy  what  a  very  agreeable  ride 
she  would  have  missed,  Mr.  Lorton,  Sir  Charles  Trevanion, 
Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey  and  her  very  nice  daughters,  and  that  first- 
rate  Lord  Erlsmere  ;  it  would  have  been  cruel  to  make  her  leave 
them." 

"  Dear  papa,  have  T  kept  you  waiting?  I  am  so  sorry,"  said 
the  gentle  voice  which  was  sweeter  than  the  most  delicious 
music  to  Lord  Rutherford's  ear.  Blanche  was  standing  on  the 
steps,  dressed  in  her  riding-habit ;  her  colour  was  brighter  than 
usual,  her  eyes  were  lighted  up  with  ]>leasure,  or  perhaps  some- 
thing better  than  pleasure — peace — the  peace  of  a  mind  at  rest 
in  itself,  and  having  nothing  externally  to  disturb  it.  It  was  a 
lovely  picture  which  she  made,  leaning  against  a  column  of  the 
portico  ;  the  peculiar  and  very  exquisite  beauty  so  lavishly  be- 
stowed upon  her  bv  nature,  enhanced  by  the  brilliant  sunshine 
and  the  colouring  of  the  flowers  which  filled  the  entrance-hall  ; 
and  Lady  Charlton  whispered  to  the  earl,  that  it  was  a  perfect 
study  for  an  artist.  She  thought  to  ]>lease  him,  but  he  did  not 
answer  her ;  his  eye  rested  upon  Blanche  ibr  a  moment,  a^^d  a 


THE      EARLS      DAUGHIER.  17p 

sigh,  audible  only  to  Lady  Charlton,  followed,  i.ud  witlicnit 
saying  another  word  he  assisted  Blanche  to  mount,  ;ind  tlioy 
rode  oft". 

And  Blanche  was  then  happy  !  with  the  certainty  of  her 
mother's  trials  and  fatal  malady,  the  want  of  congeniality  in  her 
father,  and  the  disappointment  in  her  aunt,  whose  character  she 
was  now  beginning  to  understand,  and  whilst  living  amongst 
worldly  people,  and  hearing  worldly  maxims,  tempted  by  all 
that  earth  IrfJlds  most  precious,  she  could  still  smile,  with  the 
hoi}",  innocent  smile  of  her  happy  childhood,  and  rejoice  in  "  the 
peace^that  passeth  understanding."  It  may  be  hard  to  imaoine, 
so  few  there  are  who  enter  upon  the  scene  of  life's  great  delu- 
sion with  a  sufficient  safeguard  against  its  snares.  But  if 
Blanche  had  great  temptations  to  battle  with,  she  had  also 
great  support,  not  only  iu  that  inward  strength  which  is  nevei 
denied  to  those  who  seek  it,  but  also  in  the  outward  circum- 
stances which  were  providentially  provided  for  her.  Senil- 
hurst  was,  indeed,  her  first  experience  of  the  pomps  and  vani- 
ties of  the  world  ;  she  found  there  luxury,  flattery,  refined  dis- 
sipation, disguised  selfishness  ;  but  her  mind  was  pre-occupied, 
and  in  consequence  much  that  was  evil  passed  by  unnoticed. 

Blanche  had  grown  very  old  since  that  one  conversation  with 
her  father  which  had  revealed  her  mother's  history.  The  first 
knowledge  obtained  in  early  youth  of  the  great  mistakes  by 
which  the  happiness  of  life  may  be  destroyed,  makes  us 
strangely  thoughtful :  it  opens  a  new  world,  by  drawing  aside 
the  veil  which,  in  childhood,  hides  from  us  the  hearts  of  our 
fellow-creatures,  and  induces  us  to  believe  all  persons  happy 
who  have  not  lessons  to  learn  and  teachers  to  obey.  Blanche 
saw  that  her  mother  had  erred  ;  and,  painful  as  the  conviction 
was  in  some  respects,  it  was  not  without  its  accompanying  com- 
fort ;  for  if  the  countess  had  been  reserved  and  exclusive  her 
husband  might  at  least  be  excused  for  his  want  of  sympathy. 
There  had  been  faults  on  both  sides  yet  not  such  as  to  destroy 
a  child's  respect.  Blanche  felt  that,  if  her  mother  had  been 
spared,  it  might  have  been  possible  to  bring  about  not  only 
reconciliation  but  harmony  between  her  parents.  Since  that 
blessing  was  denied  her,  it  remained  only  to  devote  herself  to 
her  father,  and  make  it  the  object  of  her  life  to  render  religion 
as  winning  to  him  now  as  formerly  it  had  been  distasteful. 
The  resolution  was  made  calmly  and  solemnly,  after  long 
thought  and  earnest  prayer  ;  for  i31anche  knew  that  it  was  not 
ftithout  its  dangers.     In  her  desire  to  make  duty  agreeable  she 


180  THE    earl's    daughter. 

was  likely  to  be  betrayed  into  a  sacrifice  of  princijile.  h  is  I  he 
evil  whicli  we  constantly  see  in  persons  who  try  to  gain  the 
favour  of  the  world,  and  yet  to  have  a  conscience  clear  of 
oti'cnce  before  God.  But  Blanche's  singleness  of  purpose  saved 
her ;  she  did  not  desire  to  please  her  father  for  the  sake  of 
his  affection,  precious  though  it  was ;  she  had  one  aim,  one 
motive,  infinitely  higher,  by  which  to  solve  every  question  of 
casuistry,  and  it  was  fortunate  for  her  object  that  it  was  so. 

Inconsistency  is  never  winning.  The  most  inveterate  oppo- 
nent of  religion  has  no  respect  for  the  halter  "  between  two 
opinions."  Talent,  grace,  beauty,  sweetness  of  temper,  unsel- 
fishness, all  are  in  the  end  powerless,  as  means  of  influer.ce, 
where  there  is  a  want  of  fixedness  in  principle ;  for  the  world  is 
quick  and  keen  in  its  perceptions,  it  is  particularly  gifted  with 
what  is  called  common  sense ;  and  however  it  may  openly 
flatter  and  fawn  upon  its  double-minded  friends  it  most  surely 
visits  them  with  scorn  in  secret.  Yet  there  was  nothing  in 
Blanche's  mode  of  life  at  Senilhurst  likely  to  attract  remark. 
Lady  Charlton  saw  that  she  was  more  cheerful,  and  attributed 
the  improvement  to  change  of  scene,  and  Adelaide  found  that 
her  cousin  could  enjoy  many  things  which  at  Rutherford  she 
had  fancied  would  have  no  interest  for  her.  All  went  on  natu- 
rally. If  Blanche  contrived  to  occupy  herself  with  Lady  Charl- 
ton's school,  it  was  in  such  a  way  that  it  brought  no  thought  of 
peculiar  goodness  or  self-denial.  She  said  that  she  liked  it,  and 
made  no  mystery  of  any  thing  she  did  there,  and  her  visits 
were  taken  as  a  matter  of  course ;  and  when  she  joined  in  the 
afternoon's  amusements  and  made  herself  often  the  life  of  the 
party,  it  did  not  occur  to  any  c>ne  to  complain  because  she  had 
absented  herself  in  the  early  part  of  the  day.  So  again,  when 
she  ^ave  up  some  scheme  of  enjoyment  to  ride  or  walk  with  her 
father,  it  was  impossible  to  think  she  had  made  a  sacrifice. 
There  was  not  a  shadow  of  disappointment  upon  her  bright 
face ;  it  was  supposed  that  she  followed  her  own  inclinations, 
and  no  sympathy  was  thrown  away  upon  her. 

And  yet  Blanche  was  learning  to  foshion  her  life,  in  this  new 
world  of  temptation,  upon  a  strict  and  most  self-denying  rule. 
Her  hours  of  devotion  were  fixed  ;  her  duties  marked  out  day 
by  day  ;  and  the  one  motive  of  her  father's  happiness  influenced 
her  in  the  most  trifling  circumstances. 

Lady  Charlton  was  a  strict  observer  of  all  the  customary 
forms  of  a  religious  household,  and  Blanche  was  never  absent 
5-ora  family  prayers.     Adelaide  laughed,  and  said,  "  She  waa 


THE      EARLS     DAUGHTER.  181 

dreadfully  good  ;"  but  it  was  not  such  an  extraordinary  eftl>n 
as  to  create  much  wonder ;  and  no  one  knew  or  thoiK^ht  of 
inquiring  how  much  time  Blanche  had  redeemed  from  unne- 
cessary sleep  to  jirepare  herself^  in  private,  fur  the  day's  trials. 
When  so  many  were  going  and  coming — talking,  "drawino-, 
singing — it  was  not  seen  that  Blanche  followed  any  order  in 
her  occupations ;  yet  the  day  was  carefully  divided,  and  seasons 
for  self-examination  and  retirement  were  as  watchfullv,  if  not 
as  inethodically,  kept  as  if  she  had  been  a  member  of  an  ordef 
set  apart  from  the  world :  whilst,  amidst  all,  as  a  duty  of  reli- 
gion as'well  as  of  affection,  Blanche  was  ever  striving  to  make 
her  father  read  with  her,  talk  to  her,  and  interest  himself  in  her 
engagements.  The  first  hour  after  breakfast  was  always  spent 
with  him,  looking  over  his  letters  and  trying  to  gain  some  in- 
sight into  the  business  connected  with  his  property.  Blanche 
had  begun  the  practice  jilayfully,  and  seemingly  only  from 
curiosity ;  but,  in  a  very  short  time,  she  made  herself  really 
useful ;  and,  even  when  questions  were  too  complicated  for  her 
opinion  to  be  of  consequence,  Lord  Rutherford  found  a  satisfac- 
tion in  talking  them  over  with  her.  So,  in  other  ways,  what- 
ever engaged  Ins  attention  occupied  hers ;  and  though  at  first 
it  was  difficult  to  believe  that  this  interest  ever  could  be  reciprocal, 
Blanche  endeavoured  to  make  it  so,  and  in  a  great  measure 
succeeded. 

She  always  took  it  for  granted  that  her  fiither  cared  to  know 
what  she  likgd  or  what  she  did.  She  gave  her  opinions  upon 
people  and  things  freely  to  him  in  private,  and  brought  out,  in 
return,  many  of  the  lesser  feelings  and  sympathies  which  form 
the  cement  of  family  life,  but  which  reserved  people  are  apt  to 
bury  in  their  own  bosoms,  and  scarcely  perhaps  to  remark  even 
in  themselves. 

It  was  scarcely  possible  for  such  an  intercourse  to  continu3 
day  after  day  without  working  some  effects,  ^•isible  even  to 
Blanche,  and  giving  her  hope  that  their  principles  might 
eventually  accord. 

Lord  Rutherford  had  begun  by  thinking  her  a  child  to  be 
loved  and  fondled,  and  treated  her  accordingly;  but,  as  time 
went  on,  his  sentiments  towards  her  insensibly  changed.  Re- 
spect blended  with  his  affection ;  respect  for  her  judgment, 
discrimination  of  character,  and  delicacy  of  feeling  ;  and  some- 
thing approaching  to  awe  at  the  high,  unworldly  views  which 
she  did  not  hesitate  to  put  forth,  though  so  unobtrusively 
as  never  to  offend   his  taste,  or  to  jar  upon  his  sense  '^f  a 


182  THE      EARLS     DAUGHTER, 

parent's  position  of  superiority.  And  Lord  Rutherford  was  iion 
at  ease  with  Blanche.  There  was  nothing  more  to  reveal. 
The  worst,  both  for  himself  and  for  her,  had  been  told  ;  yet  slie 
could  love  him  still :  and,  what  was  equally  essential  to  his 
happiness,  she  could  still  smile  without  any  apparent  foreboding 
of  evil  to  come. 

Lord  Rutherford  little  knew  the  constant  check  upon  the 
thoughts  by  Avhicli  this  calmness  was  attained.  He  only  saw 
the  result,  and  was  satisfied,  and  he  had  reason  to  be  so. 

After  the  first  shock  of  discovering  her  mother's  insanity  wf,s 
past,  Blanche's  fears  had  naturally  reverted  to  herself ;  not  so 
much  with  a  definable  dread,  as  with  a  vague  horror  of  the 
future,  which  was  perhaps  worse  to  bear.  She  was  too  young 
and  inexperienced  to  understand  fully  the  government  of  her 
own  mind,  and  fancies  and  fears  opi:)ressed  her,  which  might 
have  brought  lasting  consequences  of  evil,  but  for  a  warning 
from  the  only  friend  to  whom  she  ventured  to  reveal  the  extent 
of  her  fears. 

Mrs.  Howard  could  feel  for  Blanche,  the  more  deeply  as 
she  had  herself,  up  to  that  period,  been  kept  in  ignorance  of  the 
nature  of  the  countess's  illness  ;  but  lier  advice  was  given  with 
a  calm  decision,  wliich  in  itself  served  to  strengthen  Blanche's 
failing  spirit.  "  It  was  not,"  she  said,  "  a  case  for  resignation 
simply ;  for  that,  under  such  circumstances,  would  imply  sub- 
mission to  a  certain  evil  ;  and  the  first  thing  for  Blanche  to  do, 
was  to  realize  to  herself,  as  clearly  as  possible,  that  the  evil  was 
not  certain.  And  this  must  be  done,  not  by  taking  the  opinion 
of  others,  but  by  using  her  own  reason." 

"  Put  the  question  aside  as  belonging  to  yourself,  if  possible, 
my  dea.-  child,"  wrote  Mrs.  Howard;  "and  try  to  look  at  it  as 
if  it  concerned  another.  Our  trials  are  often  exaggerated  to  at 
least  double  their  real  magnitude,  because  we  have  not  courage 
to  view  them  in  their  full  extent.  Whatever  the  evil  may  be 
which  presents  itself,  face  it  ;  see  it  as  well  as  may  be  in  its  true 
light,  without  any  distortions  of  hope  or  fear  ;  then  deter- 
mine how  it  may  be  avoided  or  endured.  If  you  do  this,  you 
will  see  that  when  the  circumstances  are  fairly  considered,  there 
is  little  to  justify  uneasiness  in  those  who  love  you  best.  If 
there  were,  do  3'ou  think  I  could  write  as  I  am  now  doing  1 
But  you  will  say,  and  very  naturally,  that  the  dread  still 
remains  !  I  believe  it  must.  I  do  not  think  it  is  in  human 
nature  to  escape  it  ;  and  it  is  in  this  that  I  feel  for  you  most 
deeply.     Yet  it  may  be  converted  into  a  blessing.     If,  vrhen  tlie 


THE      EARL    S      DAUGHTER.  183 

idea  of  a  dreadful  possibility  presents  itself,  you  can  turn 
away  from  it  as  a  matter  of  duty,  you  will  acquire  a  jiower  of 
self-control,  which  will  be — I  cannot  say  how  useful  to  vou  in 
other  instances.  I  do  most  earnestly  trust  that  you  w  ill  try  and 
do  this.  Pray  never  read  books  upon  the  subject  ;  and 
when  you  find  yourself  fancying  what  may  be,  and  beginninor 
to  torture  yourself  with  picturing  scenes  of  misery,  remember 
that  for  you  that  sort  of  reverie  is  as  mischievous  as  real  evil 
might  be  to  others.  It  will  be  most  difficult  at  first,  I  know,  to 
keep  this  constant  watch  over  yourself ;  but  it  is  not  at  all 
impos^le,  and  your  happiness  unquestionably  depends  upon  it. 
I  should  be  much  comforted  if  I  thought  that  you  were  likely 
to  lead  a  very  active,  useful  life.  Constant  employment — devo- 
tion, in  fact,  to  any  object  out  of  yourself — would  be  a  great 
help  to  you.  And  especially,  my  dear  child,  I  must  warn  you 
not  to  try  and  hide  from  yourself  that  there  is  something  which 
you  dread.  It  would  be  a  very  vain  attempt.  Only,  when 
the  fear  comes,  as  it  must  and  will  no  doubt,  overwhelmingly, 
at  times,  until  you  have  learnt  thoroughly  to  command  yourself, 
carry  it  where  alone  it  can  be  soothed.  Do  not  reason  or  talk,  or 
even  endeavour  to  distract  your  thougiits  ; — but  pray.  If  you 
have  not  words  at  command,  yet  the  very  attitude  of  kneeling 
will  give  you  comfort.  A  child  in  its  grief  hides  its  face  in  its 
mother's  lap,  and  so  may  we  hide  our  faces  from  the  worst  of 
this  world's  sorrows  under  the  shadow  of  God's  love." 

The  quiet  tone  of  this  letter  had  a  great  influence  upon 
Blanche.  She  was  a  little  disappointed  in  it  at  first,  and 
thought  it  cold  ;  but,  on  reading  it  a  second  and  third  time,  she 
saw  that  it  only  ajipeared  so  because  Mrs.  Howard  was  not 
really  uneasy.  Her  naturally  buoyant  spirit  revived  as  the  impres- 
sion dee'^ened,  and  although  miserable  thoughts  would  often 
rrsh  upon  her  mind,  and  a  continued  check  was  required  for 
her  wandering  thoughts,  yet  she  did  by  degrees  succeed  in 
keeping  down,  though  not  entirely  crushing,  all  sad  forebodings. 

In  eifecting  this  her  life  at  Senilhurst  was  certainly  as  great 
an  assistance  as  even  Lady  Charlton  could  have  desired  ;  for  it 
was  a  very  new,  interesting,  amusing  life  ;  with  frequent  arrivals 
and  departures^  and  never-ending  schemes  ofple;isure,  and  merry 
dancing  and  musical  evenings  ;  the  pervading  gaiety  being 
varied  by  clever  discussions  upon  books,  sparkling  wit,  and 
occasional  arguments  uj)on  grave  and  imiiortant  topics.  There 
was  nothing  in  all  this  opetdy  to  shock  Blanche's  principles,  for 
Lady  Charlton  was  fastidious  in  her  choice  of  mi  tors,  and  liked 


184  THE     earl's    daughter. 

to  have  it  coiisidered  a  privilege  to  be  admitted  to  Seuilhurst 
She  contrived  also  very  cleverly  to  mix  up  her  parties,  so  as  lu 
bring  together  persons  who  were  likely  to  suit ;  and  with  Luid 
Kiitherford  and  Blanche  as  the  guests,  for  whom  she  was  most 
interested,  she  had  tjiken  particular  care  to  exclude  all  perstma 
who  had  not  something  of  intellect,  or  refinement,  or  accom- 
plishment, or,  what  she  valued  more  than  all,  goodness,  to 
recommend  them. 

Yes,  Lady  Charlton  liked  goodness  extremely — so  only  that 
it  had  a  name.  She  could  bear  with  a  considerable  amount  of 
oddity,  or  shyness,  or  even  rough  sincerity,  if  it  was  coupled 
with  a  little  respectable  authorship,  or  well-known  zej^l,  or,  what 
perhaps  was  as  useful  as  either,  a  certain  amount  of  persecution. 
Jjlanche  met  with  several  very  excellent  and  thoroughly  simple- 
minded,  unworldly  persons  at  Senilhnrst  ;  persons  whom  sha 
could  admire  heartily,  and  long  to  imitate  :  and  they  were  a 
great  safeguard  to  her,  though  in  a  way  which  her  aunt  never 
intended  when  she  brought  them  together. 

Lady  Charlton  was  a  managing,  scheming  person  ;  really 
very  unconsciously  :  management  with  her  was  an  instinct.  She 
had  managed  her  own  marriage  to  escape  from  an  unhajipy 
home,  and  the  marriages  of  her  sisters  and  of  almost  all  hei 
intimate  friends.  She  intended  to  manage  her  daughters'  also  • 
and,  as  a  matter  of  simple  duty  and  kindness,  that  of  her  niece. 

True,  Blanche  was  extremely  young  to  think  of  such  a  thing, 
quite  a  child  in  many  of  her  tastes  ;  very  ignorant  of  the  way? 
of  the  world,  and  not  yet  regularly  introduced  into  society  ;  but 
there  was  no  harm  in  being  on  the  watch.  If  it  would  not  do 
as  yet  to  iix  upon  any  person  to  encourage,  it  might  be  well  to 
take  care  that  she  should  not  be  put  in  the  way  of  any  whom 
it  might  be  right  to  discourage  ;  and,  following  out  her  own 
notions  of  what  might  not  be  wholl}'  undesirable.  Lady  Charlton 
collected  at  Senilhurst  as  many  persons  as  she  could,  of  sufti- 
cient  rank  and  fortune,  and  respectability  of  character,  to  make 
the  society  pleasant  without  being  dangerous. 

Of  one  danger,  indeed,  she  never  thought — the  danger  of  the 
flattering  homage  which  grace  and  beauty,  when  joined  to  high 
:)irth  and  great  wealth,  can  scarcely  fail  to  receive. 

That  was  no  danger  in  Lady  Charlton's  eyes  ;  rather  it  w;is 
the  tempting  prize,  for  which  every  eflbrt  must  be  risked 
lilanche  was  exposed  to  it  without  a  thought  of  caution  ;  with 
no  shield  except  the  simplicity  of  her  own  heart  and  the  devo- 
tion of  her  time  and  thoughts  to  other  objects. 


THE     EARL'S     DAUGUTER.  181 

But  with  these  she  was  safe.  The  pursuits  which  chietlv 
Latorested  her  were  such  as  brought  her  iu  contact  with  pei-sons 
whose  sujierior  intellect  and  high  tone  of  mind  raised  her 
standard  of  what  men  might  be ;  whilst  their  age  and  position 
in  life  prevented  all  idea  of  romance  or  admiration.  Blanche 
felt  keenly  the  difference  between  such  men  and  the  ordinary 
worldly,  though  refined  and  accomplished,  persons  who  visited 
at  Senilhurst.  ^She  saw  they  could  understand  and  sympathize 
with  her,  although  as  she  deemed  tar  above  her  in  mind  and 
excellence.  And  such  intercourse  saved  her  from  the  delusion, 
which  sometimes  fatally  misleads  young  persons,  of  believing, 
that  because  the  generalit}^  of  persons  are  careless  in  their 
conduct  and  lax  in  their  principles,  therefore  no  real  purity  and 
goodness  exist,  except  in  cases  of  special  retirement  and  abstrac- 
tion from  ordinary  pursuits. 

Blanche  was  beginning  to  learn,  fi'om  her  own  experience, 
that  men  can  mingle  in  the  common  intercourse  of  society  and 
retiiin  their  simplicity  and  devotedness.  She  saw  before  her 
true,  single-minded,  earnest  goodness,  and  no  discovery  of  its 
counterfeit  could  henceforth  shake  her  faith  in  it. 

It  might  be  tliat  such  a  conviction  rendered  her  fastidious 
and  indifferent.  Some  persons  said  she  was  so,  and  blamed 
her.  They  could  not  comprehend  the  quiet,  unexcited  way  in 
which  she  received  the  attentions  paid  her  by  men  whose  admi- 
ration was  generally  considered  of  gTeat  value.  One  or  two 
ladies,  more  Jiarsh-judging  than  the  rest,  declared  that  she  was 
proud  ;  others,  suspicious  of  evil,  became  conscious  of  it,  and 
yielding  to  it,  stated  their  conviction  that  Blanche  was,  in  her 
heart,  as  vain  and  "  flirty  "  as  any  other  young  lady  of  her  age; 
but  the  greater  number — men  as  well  as  women — yielded  to  the 
spell  of  her  pure  and  gentle  dignity,  and  treated  her  with  the 
cautious  respect  shown  to  the  innocence  of  a  child,  which  we 
shrink  from  sullying  even  by  a  thoughtless  word. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

"  Blanche,"  said  the  earl,  as  they  passed  through  the  park 
gates,  and  caught  sight  of  the  riding-i)arty  ascending  a  hill  at 
some  little  distance.  "  I  am  afraid  you  have  disappoint-. I 
yourself  to  keep  your  promise  with  me.  You  wanted  to  go  t^ 
Warham,  1  know  :  I  wish  you  would  have  told  me." 


1 86  THE    earl's    daughter. 

Blanche  laughed.  "  And  made  yovi  uncomfortable  and 
myself  too,  dear  papa.  I  did  want  to  go  to  Warham,  certainly ; 
but  one  day  is  as  good  as  another,  as  far  as  seeing  the  country 
is  concerned ;  and  I  had  two  reasons  for  not  desiring  to  be  with 
them  to-day.  One,  that  I  liked  the  thought  of  a  ride  with  you ; 
and  the  other,  that  I  did  not  much  foncy  the  party." 

"  What,  not  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey  !  and,  as  your  aunt  calls 
liiiii,  that  first-rate  Lord  Erlsmere?" 

"  I  like  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey  very  well ;  not  very  much,"  said 
Blanche,  hesit;fting.  "  I  wish  one  could  go  through  the  world 
without  judging  people  ;  but  I  have  never  liked  her  very  much 
since — such  a  very  little  thing,  I  really  am  ashamed  to  men- 
tion it.'' 

"  Well !  since  what  ?  I  can  keep  a  secret,"  replied  the  earl, 
Amiling. 

"  Since  I  heard  her  talk  so  strictly  against  operas  to  Arch- 
deacon Fanshawe,  and  found  out  afterwards  that  she  always 
engages  a  box  for  the  winter.  It  gave  me  a  notion  of  her  not 
being  true.  I  don't  think  I  could  ever  like  a  person  very  much 
who  was  not  true.  But  1  was  not  thinking  of  Mrs.  Cuthbert 
Grey  when  I  said  I  did  not  fancy  the  party." 

"  Of  Lord  Ei-lsmere,  then,  perhaps  ?"  said  the  earl. 

"No,  nor  of  Lord  Erlsmere.  I  don't  care  about  him,  except 
that  he  is  rather  tiresome  to  talk  to,  and  always  asks  me  if  I 
don't  look  forward  to  my  first  London  season.  But,  papa,  I  do 
very  much — I  hope  it  is  not  wrong — I  really  dislike  very  much, 
indeed,  to  go  without  you  or  my  aunt,  when  Adelaide  and  such 
a  person  as  that  Mr.  Lorton  are  together.  I  cannot  tell  why  it 
is,  but  they  make  me  feel  so  stiff  and  so  cold ;  I  am  quite 
worried  with  myself.  And  it  vexes  me  the  more,  because 
Adelaide  is  particularly  kind  to  me,  and  makes  a  point  of 
arranging  that  I  shall  be  with  her  when  she  is  going  anywhere. 
Can  you  understand  ?" 

"  Your  taste  is  offended,"  replied  the  earl ;  "  that  flirting 
manner  of  Adelaide's  is  unlady-like.  I  cannot  imagine  how 
your  aunt  can  endure  it.  I  should  lock  her  up  if  she  was  my 
child." 

"  I  wish  she  would,"  exclaimed  Blanche,  and  then,  laughing 
at  her  own  eagerness,  she  added,  "  I  wish  she  would  do 
anything,  I  mean,  to  keep  Adelaide  quiet.  And  I  wish,"  she 
continued  more  gravely,  "  that  my  aunt  could  win  Adelaide's 
confidence,  and  persuade  her  to  talk  to  her  as  she  does  to  me." 

"  Is  there  confidence  between  you,  then  ?"    exclaimed   the 


■I  HE      EARL     5      DAirGHTER.  187 

oaii,  ill  i\  tone  of  surprise,  and  slight  displeasure.  "  I  nevei 
supposed  your  cousinly  intimacy  could  go  quite  so  far  as  thai." 

"  I  don't  know  whether  you  would  call  it  confidence,"  replied 
Blanche ;  "  I  suppose  not,  for  it  is  not  at  all  reciprocal ;  but 
Adelaide  seems  to  like  to  say  odd  things  to  me,  and  now  and 
then  she  does  say  very  odd  ones ;  startling,  quite,  if  I  could 
believe  them.  But  she  rattles  ou  so  fast,  one  never  knows 
whether  she  is -ki  earnest.'* 

"  She  is  a  silly,  vain  girl,  who  never  says  a  word  worth  listen- 
ing to,"  exclaimed  the  earl,  impatiently.  "  I  hope,  Blanche,  you 
don't  trouble  yourself  about  her." 

"  I  cannot  help  myself,"  replied  Blanche. 

"  Oh !  yes,  my  love,  indeed  you  can.  If  you  were  not  so 
unnecessarily  good-natured,  you  would  by  this  time  have  found 
out  how  to  rid  yourself  of  silly  people." 

Blanche  put  her  horse  into  a  canter,  and  they  rode  on.  The 
thread  of  the  conversation  was  for  the  moment  broken,  but  the 
earl  resumed  it.  "  I  hope  you  will  remember  that,  mj  dear 
child,  when  you  go  more  into  the  world  ;  remember,  I  mean,  to 
keep  clear  of  boring,  absurd  people.  It  is  the  only  thing  I  am 
really  afraid  of  for  you.  Such  a  person  as  Adelaide  may  hang 
about  you  like  a  dead  weight,  if  you  don't  make  an  etfort  to 
sli&ke  her  oft'." 

"  Poor  Adelaide !"  exclaimed  Blanche,  "  there  are  very  few 
persons  to  care  for  her  ;  I  wish  there  were  more,  heartily.  But, 
papa,  do  you  tnow  there  does  not  seem  such  a  great  diflerenco 
to  me  between  her  and  a  good  many  other  pei-sons  I  have  seen 
here,  and  whom  my  aunt  calls  superior.  She  only  does  openly 
what  they  do  quietly." 

"  So  you  have  discovered  that,  my  love,  have  you  ?"  said  the 
earl,  smiling  ;  "  but  you  will  learn  by-and-bye,  that  it  is  a  great 
virtue  in  the  world  to  conceal  one's  object  dexterously." 

"  I  should  be  sorry  to  have  any  object  to  conceal,"  said 
Blanche. 

"  Heaven  forbid  you  ever  should  have,  my  darling ;  but  it 
would  be  impossible  :  for  you  could  never  be  on  a  par  with  tlio 
managing,  manoeuvring  j^eople  one  meets  with  everywhere ;  it 
is  not  in  your  nature.  You  will  go  on  dreaming,  Blanclie,  I 
suspect,  and  leave  it  to  your  aunt  and  hie  to  fall  in  love  for 
you." 

Blanche  laughed.  "  I  suppose  it  is  a  sort  of  thing  one  might 
be  very  glad  to  do  by  proxy,"  she  said,  "  as  most  pfO[.le  say  they 
ttre  so'wrctched  all  the  time,     But,  papa,"  she  added,  slightly 


188  THE    earl's    daughter. 

blusbino-,  "  ]  don't  see  that  it  is  quite  necessary  to  fall  in  love,  ss 
a  great  many  of  the  young  ladies  I  meet  here  seem  to  fancy." 

"  Not  necessary,"  said  the  earl,  unable  to  repress  a  smile ; 
"  only  most  natural  and  probable,  as  you  will  understand  in  duo 
time." 

"Then  I  would  rather  leave  it  to  due  time  before  I  think 
about  it,"  said  Blanche.  "  I  should  not  like  to  believe  that  I 
could  not  be  quite  happy  without  it ;  without  being  married,  I 
mean,"  she  added  quickly ;  for  the  recollection  of  the  one  2;ital 
instance  of  a  marriage  without  affection  rose  as  a  phantom  of 
evil  before  her, 

"  Yes,  leave  it,  leave  it !"  exclaimed  Lord  Rutherford,  quickly. 
"  It  will  come  too  soon  for  my  happiness,  whenever  it  does  come  : 
but  I  would  not  be  selfish." 

"  It  will  be  sent,"  said  Blanche  gravely  ;  "  I  like  to  think  that, 
because  tlien  one  feels  so  satisfied  either  way." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  sent  ?"  asked  the  earl,  shortly. 

"  Ordered ;  arranged  for  one,  by  Providence,"  answered 
Blanche.  "  I  remember,  when  I  was  quite  a  child,  asking  Mrs. 
Howard,  why  every  one  was  not  married,  and  whether  she 
thought  that  I  should  ever  be ;  and  she  said  to  me,  'God  knows, 
and  He  will  tell  us  by-and-by  ;'  and  so  I  thought  it  a  duty  to 
wait  till  I  was  told,  and  I  think  so  now ;  and,  besides,"  she 
added,  her  voice  sinking  into  an  imder  tone,  "  so  many  other 
things  may  happen  ;  one  may  die." 

They  had  just  then  reached  an  open  common,  upon  which 
stood  a  few  scattered  cottages  and  a  school  built  by  Sir  Hugh. 
It  was  a  very  inviting  place  for  a  quick  canter  over  the  soft  turf, 
and  Blanche  was  gathering  up  the  reins  as  a  preparation,  when 
two  women  came  slowly  out  of  the  school-house ,  carrying 
b3tween  them  a  little  boy,  about  five  or  six  years  of  age ;  he  was 
lymg  apparently  senseless  in  their  arms,  his  head  drooping  and 
his  face  deadly  pale.  Blanche  thought  she  recognised  him  as 
the  son  of  the  lodge-keeper  at  Senilhurst,  a  sickly  child  who  had 
often  attracted  her  notice  and  pity  for  his  ill-health,  and  in  whom 
she  was  particularly  interested,  as  being  the  nephew  of  the  blind 
girl  at  Rutherford.  The  women  stopped  to  rest,  leaning  against 
the  gate  of  the  school-ground,  and  water  was  brought  to  recover 
the  child  ;  and  as  Blanche  and  her  father  rode  close  up  to  them, 
he  revived  a  little ;  Lord  Rutherford  asked  a  few  questions,  and 
heard  that  "  he  was  faint — that  it  was  a  common  thing  with 
him,  for  he  was  very  weakly — he  would  be  better  soon,  nc 
ioubt,  and  then  he  would  go  home,  they  did  not  know  how,  it 


THE      EARLS      DAUGUTER.  189 

was  some  distance ;  but  he  would  raauage  it,  of  course,  for  he 
al\va3'S  did." 

The  earl  looked  at  the  boy,  and  said  "  Poor  little  fellow,"  and 
would  have  gone  on,  but  Blanche  begged  that  they  might  delay, 
just  for  a  few  minutes,  till  the  boy  was  really  better. 

She  should  like  to  dismount,  she  said,  if  she  might;  and  as 
the  school  could  not  well  be  left,  she  would  stay  and  watch  him 
herself,  and  then  they  might  arrange  to  have  him  taken  home, 
for  it  must  be  bad  for  him  to  walk. 

Alnipst  as  soon  as  the  words  were  spoken,  and  before  her 
father  could  assist  her,  she  had  alighted.  Lord  Rutherford 
acquiesced  in  the  idea ;  though,  if  the  suggestion  had  been  made 
by  any  one  but  Blanche,  he  might  have  laughed  at  it  a-s  ultra- 
benevolence — perhaps  he  thought  it  so  then  in  his  heart — yet 
thert  was  something  that  touched  his  better  feelings,  in  this  readv 
sympathy  with  suflering;  this  weakness,  it  might  be,  which 
could  not  "  pass  on  the  other  side,"  and  leave  a  sick  child  to  the 
chance  of  ordinary  care.  And  it  was  like  Blanche — it  was  con- 
sistent ;  and  however  far  removed  he  might  be  from  sharing  his 
daughter's  principles.  Lord  Rutherford  could  still  value  them  for 
this  one  reason.  That  which  never  failed  as  a  guide,  which 
directed  the  least  as  well  as  the  most  important  actions  of  life, 
and  gave  stability  to  a  disposition  so  gentle  and  otherwise 
yielding,  was  becoming,  even  in  the  eye  of  the  man  of  the  world, 
an  ingredient  of  value  in  the  formation  of  character. 

The  schoolmistress  and  her  companion  went  away,  and  soon 
afterwards  the  boy  was  able  to  answer  Blanche's  questions  him- 
self; but  his  countenance  belied  his  words,  when  he  said  that 
he  was  really  well ;  and  as  he  tried  to  move  hi  staggered,  and 
]iut  his  hand  to  his  head  and  complained  of  pam.  It  was  evi- 
dent that  the  attack  was  not  a  common  one. 

"  They  ought  to  send  him  home  at  once,"  said  the  earl,  with 
some  impatience  of  manner  :  "  it  is  folly  to  talk  of  his  being  able 
to  walk.  There  must  bo  a  cart,  or  something,  which  will  take 
him  ;  but  these  people  are  wonderfully  indifferent  about  such 
inatters.  I  shall  tell  them  they  must  do  something  with  him 
directly." 

He  wont  int6  the  school-house,  and  returned  almost  immedi- 
ately, followed  by  the  mistress,  who  was  sj)eaking  eagerly.  "\  es, 
certainly,  his  lordship  might  depend  upon  her  doing  lier  V»est. 
Carts  were  not  so  easy  to  be  had;  but  she  would  try.  No 
doubt  something  would  be  managed.  It  was  a  great  ])ity  his 
lordship   and    Lady    Blanche  should   have  been  delayed  ;  but 


J  90  THE      EARLS      DAUGHTER. 

Lad}'  lUauche  was  so  very  kind  always.  Johnnie  Foster  wouM 
be  quite  sorry  when  he  came  to  himself,  to  think  of  how  much 
trouble  lie  had  been  giving." 

Johnnie  Foster  seemed  perfectly  conscious  of  this  fact  already, 
tor  he  tried  to  raise  his  head,  which  was  laid  against  Blanche's 
shoulder,  and  a  smile  came  over  his  little  pale  face,  as  ho 
tliankcd  her  for  being  kind. 

The  earl  regarded  him  with  more  interest  than  before.  The 
expression  of  the  countenance  was  singularly  sweet  and  intelli- 
gent, as  he  fixed  his  blue  eyes  upon  Blanche,  with  a  mixture  of 
shyness,  wonder,  and  pleasure,  at  the  notice  she  was  bestowing 
Jpon  him.  "  We  will  look  after  him  at  Senilhu.-st,"  he  said, 
addressing  Blanche;  "but  we  must  not  wait  now,  cr  you  will 
lose  your  ride  completely." 

Jilanche  had  a  request  upon  her  lips  ;  for  slie  thought  the 
ride  a  very  secondary  object  to  the  child's  comfort.  Yet  she 
hesitated  in  making  it,  since  it  was  against  her  desire  of  con- 
sulting her  {;ithei''s  wishes. 

"  You  would  rather  stay,"  he  said,  reading  her  inclinations 
quickly. 

"  No,  not  stay  ;  for  I  do  not  think  I  can  be  of  much  use,  as 
ho  is  better  ;  but  if  there  is  any  difficulty  about  sending  him 
h('me  I  should  like  to  let  his  mother  know,  and  she  might  come 
perhaps  in  Sir  Hugh's  spring-cart  to  fetch  him.  And  then  we 
might,  if  you  did  not  care,  go  on  the  other  way  to  Cobham, 
and  let  the  doctor  know  he  is  to  come  and  see  him.  I  should 
like  to  be  sure  that  he  was  taken  care  of,"  she  added,  "  and  to 
feel  one  had  done  all  one  could." 

The  schoolmistress  bea:an  to  remonstrate  against  this  very 
unnecessary  trouble,  as  she  called  it,  repeating  agam  and  agam 
that  Johnnie  would  do  very  well,  and  they  shoulj  "  manage 
somehow ;"  but  Blanche  was  urgent,  when  she  saw  that  her 
father  did  not  ol)ject  to  the  idea,  and,  after  seeing  the  child  car- 
ried into  the  house  again  and  laid  upon  a  little  sofa  in  the 
mistress's  parlour,  she  again  mounted  her  horse  to  return. 

Cobham  was  the  post  town  of  Senilhurst,  a  small  ])lace,  a  few 
miles  from  the  railway  station.  The  road  was  dull,  and  the 
town  dirty  and  uninteresting  ;  in  general,  Lord  Rutherford  made 
"t  a  point  of  duty  to  avoid  it ;  but  this  afternoon,  although  it 
was  growing  late  and  chilly  before  he  and  Blanche  reached  it, 
tiis  usual  complaints  were  silenced.  Yet  he  was  not  amused  by 
conversation  ;  little  had  been  said  by  either,  for  nearly  half  an 
hour,  the  time  which  had  elapsed  from  their  leaving  the  lodge- 


THE     earl's    d  a  u  g  h  t  e  k  .  191 

ij^ate  at  Seiiilhui-st.  Blanche  had  seen  the  mother  of  the  sick 
child  there,  and  advised  that  he  should  be  sent  for  immediatelv 
and  had  undertaken  to  give  notice  to  the  doctor  at  Cobliani  and 
then  she  seemed  satisfied,  and  would  have  talked  as  usual  to  her 
father  upon  other  topics,  but  she  found  a  difficulty  in  fixino- 
his  attention,  and  presently  gave  up  the  endeavour.  The  medi- 
cal man  was  not  at  home.  Lord  Kutherford  wished  to  give  a 
verbal  message^  but  Blanche  asked  to  write  it. 

"It  was  more  certain,"  she  said,  "and  she  was  afraid  the 
child  was  worse  than  his  mother  fancied  ;"  so  a  card  was  left, 
with  "  Lady  Blanche  Evelyn's  compliments,"  and  once  more 
Blanche  turned  her  horse's  head  towards  Senilhurst. 

"  And  your  mind  is  at  rest  now,  Blanche,  is  it  ?"  said  her 
fiither,  as  they  rode  off.  "  Do  you  mean  to  go  tlirouoii  the 
woild  taking  as  much  pains  about  everytliing  ?  You  will  have 
hard  work  if  you  do." 

"  I  should  not  care  for  that,"  replied  Blanche  ;  "  if  I  could 
do  it  as  it  ought  to  be  done.  I  should  like  to  think  that  this 
sort  of  thing  was  work." 

"  It  is  troublesome  and  disagreeable  enough,  at  all  events," 
replied  the  earl.  -  "  Not  that  it  has  been  disagreeable  to  me, 
my  child  ;  don't  think  that ;  but  I  see  in  you  so  often,  Blanche, 
an  over-tasking  of  your  mind,  an  exhausting  energy  which  will 
wear  you  out  if  you  don't  take  care ;  and  it  makes  me  anxious 
about  you." 

Blanche  ch'ecked  her  horse,  in  her  surprise,  as  she  exclaimed  : 
"Anxious  lest  I  should  overwork  myself!  my  dear  papa!  why 
I  have  nothing  to  do  all  day  but  to  consider  my  own  pleasure." 

"And  your  pleasure  is  to  labour  for  others.  I  see  it,  my 
love,  when  you  don't  imagine  it.  From  morning  till  night 
you  give  yourself  no  rest.  There  is  always  a  thought  of  duty 
before  you." 

Blanche  w-aited  for  a  few  seconds,  and  then  said  :  "  I  wish  I 
could  believe  it  was  so  ;  but  even  sup})Osing  it,  one  must  live 
for  some  purpose,  with  some  aim,  to  be  happy  ;  and  I  should 
certainly  like  to  know  that  I  was  doing  my  utmost,  if  that  were 
ever  so  little.  \  can't  miagine  resting  in  anything  short  of  the 
utmost." 

"  It  is  a  strange  notion  for  such  a  child,"  said  the  carl, 
regarding  her  with  a  look  in  which  an  intense  affection  was 
mingled  with  wonder  and  respect ;  "  but  it  will  scarcel)'  make 
you  lia])py,  Blanche,  as  you  suppose;  because  your  notions  of 
Uie  utmost  are  unattainaljle." 
9 


192  THE    earl's    daughter. 

"  But  I  would  try  ;  I  would  strive,"  exclaimed  Blanche,  her 
face  flushing  with  eagerness  ;  "  and  my  rest  would  be  in  striv- 
mg.  There  is  so  much  to  be  done  and  to  be  accountable  for  ; 
and  life  may  l)e  short,"  she  added  quietly. 

"  Yes,  it  may  be,"  replied  the  earl,  "  but  it  may  also  be  long; 
and  there  can  be  no  reason  to  shorten  it  by  over  exertion." 

"  I  would  not  do  that,"  said  Blanche  ;  "  and  if  I  could  see 
any  danger  of  over  exertion,  I  would  check  myself  as  a  matter 
of  duty.  But  when  I  look  at  other  people  and  see  how  they 
are  circumstanced,  how  they  are  obliged  to  work,  T  feel  that  it 
would  be  absurd  in  me  to  think  over  exertion  possible.  I  am 
forced  to  live  such  a  comfortable  life,  that  the  only  satisfaction  I 
can  find  in  it  is,  when  anything  in  the  shape  of  a  duty 
comes  in  my  way,  doing  it  thoroughly." 

Lord  Rutherford  repeated  the  word  "  thoroughly,"  in  a  tone 
of  much  thoughtfulness  ;  it  seemed  to  have  aroused  a  new  train 
of  idejis. 

"  I  think  sometimes,"  continued  Blanche,  "  that  people  must 
be  better  and  happier  who  are  born  to  work,  or  at  least  to  be 
useful  in  some  definite  way.  It  seems  as  if  a  great  responsi- 
bility, and  a  great  difficulty  must  be  taken  from  them." 

"  But  why  work,  my  dear  child  ? — why  fret  yourself  about 
such  subjects  ? — why  not  take  the  world  as  it  is  given  you,  and 
amuse  yourself  as  your  age  points  out  ?" 

"  Because — "  Blanche  began  her  sentence  twice,  and  paused 
with  the  effort  to  repress  some  rising  feeling — "  because  one 
should  be  so  sorry  if  the  time  came  that  one  were  sot  able;  that 
is,  one  might  die,  or — or — it  might  not — the  power  might  not 
be  allowed  one ;  and  if  it  were  so,  and  then  at  the  last,  perhaps 
just  before  one's  death,  one  had  to  look  back  upon  this  time 
wasted,  it  would  be  so  dreadful."  Her  voice  grew  quite  composed 
as  the  sentence  concluded  ;  but  the  earl  read  the  secret  dread 
which  prompted  the  thought,  and  his  face  was  in  an  instant  con- 
vulsed with  an  expression  almost  of  agony.  Putting  spurs  to 
his  horse,  he  galloped  on,  without  venturing  upon  another  word 
till  they  reached  Senilhurst. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

"  Blanche,  where  are  you  going  ?  here  are  letters  for  you," 
said  Lady  Charlton,  the  following  morning,  as  Blanche  came 
Uito  the  library,  dressed  for  walking. 


THE     EARL     S     DAUGHTER.  193 

Blanche  received  her  letters,  and  was  going  to  take  thera 
rjivay,  when  her  aunt  again  made  the  inquiry  as  to  where  she 
was  going.  "It  is  too  damp,  my  love,  for  you  to  be  out.  The 
weather  is  quite  changed — really  wintry,  I  must  have  vou 
careful  of  yourself." 

Blanche  was  only  going  to  the  lodge  to  inquire  for  the  little 
boy,  and  had  no  intention,  she  said,  of  remaining  out  lonof. 

"  Oh !  but,  ujy  dear,  we  can  send  quite  easily.  Pray  don't 
give  yourself  the  trouble  of  inquiring,  and  don't  tire  yourself, 
especially  to-day.  We  shall  have  such  a  charming  importation 
of  visitors  at  dinner ;  people  you  will  be  sure  to  like,  so  don't 
wear  yourself  out  beforehand." 

"  Any  one  I  know  ?"  asked  Blanche. 

"  Oh  !  yes — know  by  name  quite  well ;"  and  Lady  Chai'lton 
ran  over  a  short  list,  consisting  of  a  poet  and  a  poet's  wife ;  an 
^listorian,  his  sister,  and  a  brother-in-law,  all  delightful  people  ; 
and  to  crown  the  whole,  Mr.  Johnstone,  of  Oaketield  ;  "  it  is 
the  greatest  favour  in  the  world  for  him  to  come,"  she  said,  her 
eyes  lighted  up  with  excitement.  "  He  is  so  immensely  busy, 
and  so  entirely  devoted  to  his  parish,  and  the  bishop  makes  so 
much  of  him,  and  gives  him  such  a  quantity  of  work  to  do,  I 
quite  despaired  of  him,  though  I  longed  for  you  to  see  him, 
Blanche.  But  I  tempted  him  with  the  petition  that  he  would 
give  an  opinion  about  the  restoration  of  the  chancel  which  you 
heard  Sir  Hugh  talk  of.  Those  good  men  are  so  very  hard  to 
get  at,  it  is  qitite  a  triumph  when  one  can  seize  upon  them  for 
a  day." 

"  And  will  Mrs.  Johnstone  come  too  ?"  inquired  Blanche. 
"  Eleanor  Wentvvoith  knows  her,  I  think ;  I  remember  hearing 
her  say  one  day  that  she  was  a  particularly  nice  person." 

"  I  believe  she  is  very  nice, — extremely  quiet  and  domestic ; 
good  she  must  be  to  be  his  wife ;  but  I  don't  know  much  of 
her  ;  she  seldom  leaves  horae." 

"  Then  Mr.  Johnstone  will  come  alone,"  said  Blanche. 

"  Mrs.  Johnstone  is  to  come,  if  it  is  not  too  wet,  and  to  bring 
a  friend ;  but  I  must  confess  she  is  a  very  secondary  considera- 
tion. He  is  charming,  however.  I  shall  persuade  him  to  stay 
to-morrow,  if  I  possibly  can ;  but  T  am  afraid  he  will  be  obsti- 
nate. But  that  must  be  left ;  all  I  wanted  to  say  to  you,  my 
love,  was  to  give  you  a  warning  not  to  over-fatigue  j-oursolf,  as 
I  should  give  Ady  warning  before  a  ball.  So  much  for 
difference  of  taste !  By  the  by,  have  you  seen  Ady  this 
tnoruintr  ?" 


194  THE    earl's    daughter 

"  No,"  replied  Blanche;  "  she  was  not  down  stairs  when  I 
left  the  breakfast-room." 

"  Shockingly  bad  habits  !"  exclaimed  Lady  Charlton,  shaking; 
her  head.  "•  I  wish  you  could  give  her  a  little  of  your  energy 
and  steadiness,  Blanche ;  or,  more  properly,  a  great  deal.'' 
Then  assuming  an  air  of  confidence,  she  added, — "  1  need  noi 
say  to  you,  that  Ady  gives  me  a  great  deal  o(  anxiety." 

Blanche  assented  by  a  look  of  sympathy,  for  she  did  not 
know  what  to  answer. 

"  She  is  very  giddy,"  continued  Lady  Charlton,  "  and  wilful 
too.  I  was  in  hopes  that  taking  her  from  Rutherford  might 
have  done  some  good,  but  I  am  half  afraid.  Pray  have  you 
heard  from  Miss  Wentworth  lately  ?" 

Blanche  held  a  letter  from  Eleanor  in  her  hand,  and  Lady 
Charlton  began  to  excuse  herself  for  having  kept  her  so  long 
^rom  reading  it  ;  looking,  at  the  same  time,  as  if  she  very 
much  wished  that  it  should  be  opened  in  her  presence. 

"  London  !"  exclaimed  Blanche,  in  surprise,  as  she  broke  the 
seal,  and  examined  the  date ;  "  that  must  be  quite  a  sudden 
plan." 

Lady  Charlton's  countenance  showed  some  uneasiness. 
Blanche  was  too  much  occupied  with  her  letter  to  notice  it ;  yet 
she  read  out  passages  occasionally,  from  the  consciousness  that 
Lady  Charlton  was  standing  by,  listening  and  expecting, 
Eleanor,  it  seemed,  was  in  London,  staying  with  a  cousin  who 
was  about  to  sail  for  India,  and  had  insisted  upon  her  paying  a 
short  farewell  visit. 

"  She  does  not  write  in  good  spirits,"  said  Blanche,  comment- 
ing upon  the  letter  as  she  went  on  ;  "  Rutherford  is  so  dull,  she 
says,  without  me.  I  was  afraid  she  would  miss  me ;  she  wants 
so  much  to  know  what  I  am  doing."  Here  followed  an  extract 
from  the  letter,  and  rather  an  unfortunate  one,  for  it  brought 
Blanche  into  the  middle  of  a  confidential  sentence,  before  she 
exactly  knew  where  she  was,  and  when  it  was  equally  impos- 
sible either  to  go  forwards  or  backwards,  without  explanation  ; 
she  stopped  and  coloured  ;  and  then,  laughing  at  her  own  awk- 
wardness, exclaimed,  "  I  don't  know  why  I  should  be  so  shy 
with  you.  Aunt  Charlton  ?  I  am  sure  you  will  understand. 
Eleanor  and  I  were  talking  one  day  at  Rutherford,  about  being 
separated  all  the  winter  ;  and  we  said  it  would  be  so  nice  if  she 
could  come  here  for  a  little  time  :  but  we  both  agreed  it  could 
not  be,  because  we  knew  you  were  imcomfortable  about  Mr. 
Wentworth  and  Adelaide.     Now,  Eleanor  says  she  cannot  help 


THE      E  A  K  L    S     DAUGHTER.  195 

t'.iiiiking  about  it,  and  longing  for  it,  because  London  is  so  near 
and  the  Jolmstones  have  Jisked  her  to  go  to  them,  which  would 
bring  her  into  the  neighbourhood.  Her  brother  is  not  with  her 
so  that  there  would  be  no  real  objection,  if  I  could  mana<i-e  it. 
But  you  must  not  think  about  it,  please,"  continued  Blanche, 
affectionately.  "  I  would  not  worry  you  on  any  account,  and  I 
know  the  house  is  full,  and  it  may  be  very  inconvenient ;  and 
as  to  her  visit  i©  Mrs.  Johnstone,  she  does  not  say  she  is  goino-, 
only  that  she  has  been  asked.  I  merely  mentioned  it  that  you 
might  SQ«  there  was  no  mystery.  I  need  not  let  Eleanor  know 
that  the  idea  was  ever  suggested  to  you." 

It  was  a  great  effort  to  Lady  Chai-lton  to  conceal  that  the 
visit  of  any  person  of  the  name  of  Wentworth  would  be  dis- 
agreeable to  her ;  but  she  was  really  extremely  fond  of  Blanche, 
and  anxious  to  make  her  happy,  and  if  Mi-.  A\"en(worth  was  out 
of  the  way,  there  could  be  no  actual  objection  to  Eleanor  her- 
self. Still  she  hesitated  ;  it  was  opening  the  door,  and  no  one 
could  foresee  the  consequences. 

"  If  I  were  quite  sure  about  Mr.  Wentworth,"  she  began. 

Blanche  interposed  with  an  urgent  entreaty  that  she  would 
not  allow  the  subject  to  trouble  her  for  an  instant.  She  could 
quite  understand ;  so  would  Eleanor.  And,  after  all,  even  if 
the  invitation  was  given,  Mrs.  Wentworth  might  not  like 
Eleanor  to  accept  it ;  and  Lady  Charlton  acquiesced,  but  not  as 
if  she  was  satisfied  with  the  decision  ;  it  seemed  unkind,  and  all 
Blanche's  assurances  to  the  coutraiy  failed  to  restore  her  to 
equanimity. 

Poor  Blanche  heartily  repented  her  imprudence  in  reading 
the  letter  aloud  too  hastily.  It  was  a  lesson  for  the  future,  but 
the  experience  was  bought  dearly.  Lady  Charlton  was,  to  use 
the  common  expression,  "  put  out ;"  and  there  is  nothing  which 
effects  this  more  surely  with  people  who  seek  popularity,  and 
pique  themselves  upon  good-nature,  than  being  obliged  to  ap- 
pear ill-natured.  She  endeavoured  to  change  the  subject  and 
spoke  again  of  the  guests  who  were  expected  in  the  evening ; 
but  she  showed  plainly  what  was  burdening  her  mind,  by  saying, 
as  she  left  the  room,  "  You  know,  my  dear,  I  could  not  bear  to 
be  ungracious;  but  it  would  be  a  mere  compliment  to  ask  Miss 
Wentworth  here  merely  for  two  or  three  days,  and  next  week 
we  shall  really  not  have  a  bod  to  spare." 

Blanche  had  nothing  more  to  say,  and  nothing  to  do,  but  to 
try  and  forget  her  disappointment  as  best  she  might.  She  k-ft 
the  house,  intending  to  go  to  the   Lodge,  but    the    sl<y  w.u 


196  THE    earl's    daughter. 

clouding  over,  and  before  she  had  gone  any  distance,  large 
drops  of  rain  fell,  and  she  was  obliged  to  return. 

Misfortunes,  every  one  agrees,  never  come  alone,  and  this 
disturbance  of  her  plans  was  a  great  increase  to  Blanche's 
annoyance.  She  was  lingering  under  the  portico,  trying  to 
persuade  herself  that  black  clouds  and  faint  glimmerings  of 
light,  swiftly  appearing  and  vanishing,  meant  fine  weather,  when 
Adehiide  Charlton  came  to  the  hall  door,  and  seeing  that  Blanche 
had  been  walking,  asked  what  the  weather  was  likely  to  be. 
IManche  was  a  little  startled  by  the  question,  for  she  had  not 
thought  that  any  one  was  near,  and  turned  rather  quickly  to 
answer  it.  At  tlie  same  moment  Adelaide  dropped  a  letter, 
which  she  was  reading.  Blanche  stooped  to  pick  it  up,  but 
Adelaide  stepped  forward  in  a  great  hurry  to  prevent  her. 

"  Thank  you  ;  don't  trouble  yourself,"  she  said,  hurriedly, — 
crumpling  the  letter  in  her  hand,  and  evidently  much  dis- 
coiujjosed ;  "  have  you  had  letters  this  morning  ? — any  from 
flirs.  Howard — from  Rutherford  ? — but  I  forgot,  there  is  no  one 
to  write  to  you  there  ;  that  is  I  suppose, — I  imagine — is  Miss 
VVentworth  at  home  ?" 

"  No,"  replied  Blanche,  a  little  surprised  at  Adelaide's  confused 
manner ;  "  she  has  been  on  a  visit  to  a  cousin,  in — " 

Blanche  did  not  say  where,  for  a  little  dog,  a  pet  of  Mrs. 
Cuthbert  Grey's,  just  then  came  running  up  to  her,  and  jumping 
upon  her  dress,  diverted,  for  the  moment,  the  current  of  her 
ideas. 

"  And  Miss  "Wentworth  is  going  to  rerrain — how  long  did 
you  say,  in  London  ?"  inquired  Adelaide,  st  11  lingering,  with  the 
pretence  of  watching  the  weather. 

"  I  don't  know,  exactly,"  rejilied  Blanche,  not  observing,  in 
her  simplicity,  the  knowledge  which  Adelaide  showed  of  Elea- 
nor's movements. 

"  She  will  not  have  time  to  come  here,  I  suppose,"  said 
Adelaide,  carelessly. 

Blanche  did  perceive  something  unusual  in  this  remark — in 
the  tone  rather  than  the  words.  She  looked  at  Adelaide  more 
attentively.  There  was  anxiety  in  her  foce ;  an  anxiety  which 
she  was  trying  to  hide  by  a  forced  coolness.  She  bent  down  to 
caress  the  dog,  and  again  the  letter  fell  from  her  hand.  Blanche 
did  not  offer  a  second  time  to  pick  it  up  ;  but,  as  it  lay  for  an 
instant  on  the  ground,  she  thought  the  handwriting  was 
Eleanor's. 

"  It  won't  do  for  excursions  to-day,"  said  Adelaide,  advancing 


THE      EARL    S      DAUGHTER.  197 

to  the  top  of  tlie  steps ;  "  we  must  make  up  our  minds  to  amuse 
ourselves  as  well  as  we  can  within  doors.  It  is  a  happy  tinu^ 
we  have  not  very  stupid  people  to  entertain :  the  Cuthbcrt 
Greys  are  invaluable  on  a  wet  day." 

"  And  there  are  *o  many  coming  to  dine  and  sleep,"  ob- 
served Blanche  :  "  with  such  a  set  of  geniuses,  we  ought  to  be 
very  agreeable." 

"  Geniusesji' exclaimed  Adelaide;  "of  all  things  in  a  country 
part}^  I  hate  geniuses  ;  people  who  force  one  to  count  the 
letters  in  every  word  one  utters,  lest  one  should  shock  them  by 
one's  Ignorance :  and  who,  after  all,  are  generally  the  dullest 
persons  one  ever  meets." 

"  Then  you  must  have  goodness  instead,"  said  Blanche,  laugh- 
ing. "  Mr.  Johnstone  is  more  fomous,  1  believe,  for  his  good- 
ness even  than  for  his  talents." 

Adelaide  made  no  reply,  but  ran  down  the  steps,  regardless 
of  the  rain,  and  declared  that  it  was  cert^iinly  going  to  be  fine. 

"  You  will  be  very  wet ;  do  come  in,  pray,  Adelaide,  do,"  re- 
monstrated Blanche.  But  Adelaide's  fancy,  at  that  time,  was 
to  be  considered  strong.  On  other  occasions  she  sometimes 
chose  to  be  thought  delicate.  She  stayed  just  long  enough  to 
prove  that  she  would  have  her  own  way,  and  then  ran  back 
into  the  house,  leaving  Blanche  provoked  by  her  absurdity,  and 
rather  mystified  by  her  manner. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

A  WET  day  in  a  country  house  is  undoubtedly  a  trial ;  often 
of  the  spirits,  and  always  of  the  mental  resources  of  the  party 
assembled.  Senilhurst  was  as  pleasant  a  house,  uader  sucli 
circumstances,  as  could  well  be  imagined,  for  there  were  books 
for  those  who  chose  to  employ  their  minds  ;  music  and  draw- 
ings for  any  who  enjoyed  and  appreciated  thoni  ;  and  billiards 
for  idle  gentlemen  who  had  no  other  way  of  killing  time.  Mrs 
Cuthbert  Grey  sat  near  a  window,  ostensibly  for  the  benefit 
of  the  light  upon  her  embroidery  frame, — really,  that  she  might 
be  able  to  see  all  that  was  going  on.  The  Miss  Greys  wrote 
setters  and  worked,  and  tried  to  make  Lord  Erlsmere  tiilk,  and 
to  persuade  Maude  to  sing.  Adelaide  was  unusually  quiet ;  it 
w;ls  supposed  because  she  was  interested  in  a  new  ncve'l  ;   and 


198  r  11  K      EARLS      DAUGHTER. 

not  even  the  entrance  of  an  occasional  refug^ee  from  the  hbrar^ 
— tired  of  prosinu;  with  Sir  Ilngli)  '"^^  hoping  to  find  relief  in 
the  society  of  ladies — induced  her  to  exert  herself  to  be  enter- 
taining. Lady  Charlton  came  into  the  room  frequently ; 
gossiped  a  little  with  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grt?y,  and  admired  the 
Miss  Greys'  work,  and  wished  earnestly  that  she  could  find 
time  to  be  as  industrious  ;  and  then  turned  to  Lord  Erlsmere, 
with  some  question  about  the  post-office,  or  the  railroads,  which 
brought  out  his  accurate  information  ujton  all  matters  of  public 
interest.  "  But  there  was  no  resting-place  for  her  there,"  as  she 
said  herself  with  a  tragicomic  shake  of  the  head,  which  implied 
that  she  was  overi)owered  with  business.  "The  poor  little  new 
schoolmistress  had  come  to  make  a  complaint  to  Sir  Hugh 
about  her  chimney ;  and  Mrs.  Foster,  at  the  Lodge,  wanted 
advice  about  her  boy ;  and  many  other  little  matters,  too 
numerous  to  be  mentioned,  were  all  requiring  her  presence 
elsewhere.  She  wished  earnestly  that  she  could  have  a  day's 
quiet — but  home  and  quietness  were  not  synonymous  terms" — 
and,  with  a  resigned  sigh,  Lady  Charlton  flitted  from  the  room, 
leaving  her  guests  in  a  very  agreeable  state  of  feeling — com- 
pounded of  pleasure  at  the  delicate  flattery  administered  to 
themselves — and  admiration  of  the  energetic,  self-denying,  and 
useful  life  of  their  hostess. 

"  Lady  Blanche  does  not  give  us  much  of  her  society  in 
the  morning,"  said  Miss  Caroline  Grey  to  Maude,  after  they  had 
been  silent  for  some  minutes,  and  were,  as  she  thought,  in 
danger  of  becoming  victims  to  dulness  in  consequence. 

"  She  spends  a  great  deal  of  her  time  with  her  father,  I 
imagine,"  observed  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey,  in  a  soft  voice.  "One 
cannot  be  surprised  at  it.  Such  a  sweet  young  creature  as  she 
is  ! — he  must  take  great  delight  in  forming  her  character." 

"  Iler  character  is  formed,  I  should  think,"  said  Lord  Erls- 
mere, who,  if  not  a  first-rate  person  in  point  of  interest,  was 
certainly  so  in  his  love  of  truth  and  &im])licity. 

Mi's.  Cuthbeit  Grey  sank  from  rapture  into  pity. 

"  Yes,  Lady  Blanche's  character,  she  supposed,  might  be  said 
to  be  formed  ;  formed  in  a  peculiar  way  for  so  young, — so  very 
young  a  person ;  but  that  v.-ould  scarcely  prevent  Lord  Ruther- 
ford from  being  anxious  about  her.  Poor  man  !  he  had  great 
cause  for  anxiety  ;"  and  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey  sighed,  and  again 
repeated,  "  Poor  man  ;"  and  concluded  with  observing,  "  that  it 
must  be  a  comfort  to  him,  under  the  circumstances,  to  see  his 
•i-iughter  so  cheerful,  and  with  such  even  spirits."     An  observ- 


THE    earl's    dalgiiter.  199 

ation  •nliicli  made  Lord  Erlsmere  lo  A  up  with  a  pcrceptiow  of 
some  secret  meaning. 

Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey  worked  very  diligently  after  this,  only 
pausing  every  now  and  then  to  inquire  how  her  eldest  daughttji 
was  progressing  in  her  studies ;  fur  Miss  Grey  had,  within  the 
last  few  minutes,  laid  down  her  pen,  and  commenced  the 
perusal  of  a  political  pamphlet  which  Lord  Erlsmere  had  been 
heard  to  recojjimend  strongly.  This  brought  on  a  discussion, 
deferential  on  the  part  of  Miss  Grey,  and  animated  on  that  of 
Lord  Jlrlsmere  ;  in  the  midst  of  which  something  very  lik.i  a 
groan  was  heard  to  escape  from  Maude — and  throwing  down 
her  book  with  an  ejaculation  at  its  stupidity,  she  left  tht  room 
apparently  in  a  fit  of  impatience. 

There  was  a  gleam  of  hope  in  the  prospect  of  the  weather  ; 
a  little  blue  sky  in  the  west,  and  symptoms  of  dispersion 
amongst  the  clouds  overhead.  Maude  stood  in  the  portico,  as 
Adelaide  had  done  before — her  own  countenance  very  like  a 
thunder-cloud — and  her  voice,  as  she  hummed  the  first  few 
notes  of  a  German  song,  not  very  unlike  its  distant  rumbling. 
Yet  it  was  not  the  thunder-cloud  of  anger  only — sadness  and 
weariness  were-  mingled  with  it ;  and  when,  a  few  minutes 
afterwards,  she  went  to  put  on  a  bonnet  and  shawl,  intending 
to  take  a  solitary  walk  in  the  colonnade,  it  was  with  a  listless- 
ness  which  proved  that  the  walk,  in  itself,  was  no  object  to  her. 
!Many  times  she  paced  up  and  down — slowly  and  decidedly — 
stopping  ev«ry  now  and  then  as  the  sound  of  wheels  caught 
her  ear ;  but  even  in  this  there  was  the  same  indifference  and 
languor.  A  carriage  at  last  entered  the  park,  and  was  driving 
up  to  the  house  ;  Maude  turned  a  corner  to  avoid  being  seen, 
and  then  looked — she  did  not  know  ■nhy,  visitors  were  not  of 
any  importance  to  her,  and  this  was  a  hired  carriage — a  fly  ; — 
probably  some  people  come  to  stay  ; — the  Johnstones  possibly 
— they  were  expected  before  luncheon.  Yes,  so  it  was ; — Mr. 
Johnstone,  with  a  pleasant,  clever,  rather  eager  face ;  and  Mrs. 
Johnstone,  with  a  face  which  none  would  remark.  And  there 
was  a  friend  too — a  tall,  elegant-looking  girl,  her  features  were 
not  seen  at  first,  she  lingered  behind  Mrs.  Johnstone ;  but 
Maude  caught  a  full  view  of  them,  as  some  remark  ^vas  made 
which  induced  her  to  look  towards  the  colonnade,  and  saw — 
the  could  not  be  mistaken — undoubtedly  it  must  be — Eleanor 
Wentworth.  Maude's  impulse  was  a  strange  one  ; — it  was  less 
surprise  than  irritation  ;  it  made  her  rush  down  the  steps  from 
the  colonnade,  and  hurry  away  into  the  thick  shriibbeiy,  and 


200  THE    earl's    daughter. 

from  thence  into  tlie   park;    and  away — slie  scarcily   cared 
wliere — so  that  she  might  be  certain  of  soUtude. 

The  clouds  were  now  gathering  together  again,  and  a  driving 
mist  was  settHng  into  rain  ;  but  Maude  was  at  no  time  as  mind- 
ful of  weather  as  her  health  required,  and  though  she  was 
tired  with  her  walk,  went  on,  until  a  pelting  shower  convinced 
her  how  unwise  she  had  been,  and  induced  her  to  think 
seriously  of  shelter.  The  lodge  was  near,  and  she  hurried 
towards  it,  and  opened  the  door  unceremoniously.  The  next 
moment  she  repented  of  her  haste,  for  she  was  an  intruder. 
She  saw  it  directly,  as  Blanche  rose  from  a  seat  by  the  side  of 
the  sick  boy's  bed,  and  closing  a  book  from  which  she  had 
been  reading  to  him,  said,  "  I  Mill  come  and  finish  it  to-morrow 
if  I  can  ;  and  you  will  try  and  think  about  it,  Johnnie,  and  be 
^latient,  wont  you  ?" 

Her  hand  was  laid  upon  the  little  fellow's  burning  cheek, 
and  she  bent  over  him,  and  whispered,  "  God  bless  you  !"  and 
as  Maude  came  forward  to  speak  to  the  child  herself,  she  per- 
ceived Lord  Rutherford  also.  lie  was  standing  behind  a  pro- 
jecting wall,  and  gazing  so  earnestly  upon  Blanche,  that  he  had 
not  noticed  Maude.  He  came  into  the  light  as  she  spoke,  and 
laughed  at  their  meeting,  and  said  a  few  words  in  his  usual 
tune,  but  there  was  deeper  thought  beneath  the  outward  indif- 
ference, and  the  glance  of  his  eye  was  softened  as  it  rested  upon 
Blanche  into  the  expression  of  a  woman's  tenderness. 

"  We  can  go  now,  I  think,  dear  papa,"  said  Blanche,  draw- 
ing near  to  him. 

lie  was  generally  cold,  even  to  her,  in  the  presence  of  others  ; 
but  now  he  put  his  aim  around  her  and  kissed  her.  They 
stood  togetlier  by  the  side  of  the  child's  bed.  Maude  watched 
them  with  an  indefinable  fueling  of  repose. 

"  We  will  comt  again  to-morrow,"  said  Blanche,  ajtpealing 
to  her  father. 

"Yes,  to-morrow,  if  we  can.  He  will  be  better  then,  we 
hope  ;  and  we  must  remember  what  he  wants.  I  will  speak 
about  it  myself." 

"  Thank  you — thank  you,"  said  Blanche  ; — "  so  very  much  :" 
and  the  child  tried  to  sit  up,  and  thanked  him  also ;  Hi?d  Lord 
Rutherford  turned  hastily  away,  for  he  would  not  for  wnlds  it 
should  be  seen  that  a  tear  glistened  in  his  eye. 

"This  is  not  weather  for  you  to  be  out  in,  Maude,"  said 
Blanche,  as,  the  shower  being  over,  they  left  the  cottag-e  toge- 
ther, the  earl  lingering  behind.  "I  was  half  afraid  of  it"  lyscll 
and  I  am  much  stronger  than  you  are." 


THE      earl's      DAUGHfER.  201 

"  It  is  better  at  least  than  the  weather  within,"  rephed  Maud>; 
shortly.  "  You  seldom  sit  in  the  drawing-room  in  the  moruiii<>- ; 
so  you  don't  know  w hat  it  is.  But  I  wonder  you  ventured  so 
tar  from  home  when  you  were  expecting  Eleanor  Wentworth." 

She  said  this  bitterly ;  and,  when  Blanche  turned  round  in 
extreme  surprise,  she  saw  that  Maude's  lip  was  curlinor  with 
pride  and  anger. 

"  I  don't  want  to  blame  you,  Blanche,"  began  Maude  again  • 
but  Blanche'^nterrupted  her  with  questions  as  to  her  meaniiiir. 
Could  she  be  sure  that  it  was  Eleanor  ?  did  she  know  whether 
Ladj'^Charlton  was  annoyed  ?  and  similar  inquiries  which  wen 
a  very  evident  proof  that  Eleanor's  visit  was  entirely  unexpected. 
Maude's  irritated  face  was  gradually  soothed  as  the  conviction 
strengthened,  yet  her  only  reply  was,  "  One  can't  doubt  you, 
Blanche  ;  but  don't  hurry  on  in  that  way.  Must  jou  see  Miss 
Wentworth  immediately  T' 

"  Yes  ;  no  ;  there  is  no  absolute  necessity.  ^Vhy  must  I  not 
go  ?"  inquired  Blanche. 

"  Simply  because  I  must  speak  to  you  first,"  answered  Maude. 
"  Can  I  not  have  a  few  moments  of  your  precious  time  ?"  she 
iadded,  as  Blanche  seemed  inclined  to  wait  for  Lord  Rutherford. 

"  Yes,  of  coiii-se,  presently  ;  but  I  must  not  leave  him  to  walk 
home  alone ;"  and  Blanche  turned  back  and  put  her  arm  within 
her  father's.  They  walked  on  silently.  Blanche,  was  too  much 
perplexed  and  annoyed  at  Eleanor's  unforeseen  arrival  even  to 
mention  her  name. 

"  I  may  come  to  you  before  dinner,  papa  ;  may  I  not  ?"  she 
said  as  they  reached  the  house,  and  Lord  Kutherford  stood, 
apparently  expecting  her  to  enter. 

Maude  touched  her  arm  impatiently,  "  If  you  stay  here, 
Blanche,  you  will  be  seen.  I  must  have  you  ;  this  way" — and 
she  would  have  drawn  her  into  the  colonnade. 

Blanche  resisted.  "  I  may  come  and  seal  your  letters,  papa, 
at  live  o'clock  '  may  I  not  V  she  inquired  again.  Lord  Rutherford 
smiled.  Maude,  eager  as  she  was,  could  not  help  noticing  the 
fondness  of  his  manner. 

'•  Good-by'e,"  said  Blanche,  lightly.  "  I  am  going  with 
Maude  now.". 

She  followed  her  cousin  through  the  colonnade,  and  Lord 
Rutherford  stood  at  the  door,  and  watched  them  till  they  had 
turned  the  angle  of  the  building  ;  and  even  when  they  were 
.-vut  of  sight,  he  still  lingered,  as  if  unwilling  even  for  those  few 
cunutf;s  to  lose  siu'ht  of  her. 


"202  '1  n  E    earl's    da-u(ihteii. 

"And  iKnv,  ISlanche,  answer  nic,"  exolainipd  Maude,  ■wlit-n 
they  were  alone,  "  only  once,  tell  nie  plainly,  did  you  not  expecrt 
Eleanor  to-day  ?" 

"  I  have  told  you  in  all  but  the  exact  words — why  do  you  ns\ 
me  again  ?" 

"  P'ecause — the  world  is  a  strange  world — more  strange  every 
day — more  irritating,  aggravating,  enraging."  Maude  walked 
on  so  rapidly,  that  Blanche  found  it  ditticult  to  keep  up  with  her. 

"Adelaide,  and  the  Cuthbert  Greys,  and  that  bore  Lord  Erls- 
mtrre,  and  Eleanor  Wentworth — they  are  all  alike  ;  not  one 
better  than  the  other,"  continued  Maude.  "  If  they  were  twenty 
times  your  friends,  Blanche,  1  must  say  it." 

"  l>ut,  my  dear  Maude,  pray — if  you  would  only  be  clear — 
only  tell  me  what  you  are  thinking  of.  You  really  make  me 
impatient?" 

"  Then  I  make  you  what  I  am  myself,"  answered  Maude.  "  I 
need  not  do  that  either,"  she  added  in  a  lower  and  graver  tone ; 
"  but  you  are  too  good  for  them,  Blanche  ;  and  I  cannot  be.ir 
to  see  you  deluded.  AVhy  do  vou  put  faith  in  Eleanor  Went- 
worth ?" 

"  Eleanor !  she  is  my  friend  ;  we  were  brought  up  together : 
whom  can  I  put  faith  in  besides  V  inquired  Blanche,  in  rather 
a  frightened  tone. 

"  In  me,"  exclaimed  Maude,  sarcastically.  "  I  should  not 
tieat  you  as  Eleanor  Wentworth  does."  Then,  seeing  that 
Blanche  was  silent  from  astonishment,  she  added,  "You  did  not 
know  that  she  was  expected  to-day  ;  but  Adelaide  did."  i  Hanche 
remembered  the  handwriting  she  had  seen,  and  could  not  doubt 
the  assertion.  "  I  am  not  jealous,"  continued  Maude.  "  I  don't 
want  to  win  your  affection,  or  any  of  that  romantic  nonsense ; 
so  you  need  not  think  I  have  any  double  meaning." 

"  Double  !  oh,  no  !  impossible  !"  interrupted  Blanche. 

"Not  so  impossible  as  you  may  think.  People  don't  tell 
tales  of  one  another,  generally,  Avithout  some  meaning.  Mine 
is  to  put  you  on  your  guard,  and  make  you  see  that  Eleanor 
Wentworth  is  too  much  a  friend  of  Adelaide's  to  be  a  friend  of 
yours  too." 

"  But  indeed,  Maude,  you  w'rong  me  very  much,"  exclaimed 
Blanche.  "  I  know  that  Eleanor  is  what  some  people  would 
call  a  friend  of  Adelaide's ;  that  is,  they  are  glad  to  see  each 
other,  and  laugh  and  talk  together  ;  but  that  sort  of  thing  is 
totally  difterent  from  her  feeling  for  me.  I  cannot  imagine  how 
it  should  stand  in  her  way." 


THE      EARLS      DAUGHTER.  203 

"  lias  it  not  stood  in  the  way  ?"  inquired  ilaude,  coolly 
"  Whv  did  not  Miss  Wentwortli  tell  vou  she  was  coming  here 
to-day  ?" 

"  Because — for  a  thousand  reasons.  I  will  go  and  ask  her ;" 
and  she  would  have  hurried  away,  if  Maude  had  not  detained 
her. 

"  Blanche,  how  long  will  you  be  a  child,  trusting  and  deceived  • 
I  tell  you  I  know  Eleanor  Wentwortli  better  than  you  do.  She 
is  Adelaide's  friend  ;  and  like  her — ^•ain,  frivolous, — worldly  ; 
that  is  the  word  you  will  understand." 

".^o;  that  she  never  was,  and  never  will  be,"  exclaimed 
Blanche  with  energy.  "I  will  not  listen  to  you,  Maude  ;  it  is 
unfair  to  Eleanor.  She  was  my  first  friend,  and  I  will  not  hear 
her  spoken  ill  of  without  giving  her  the  opportunity  of  defending 
herself     I  will  ask  her  for  an  explanation." 

"  Ask,  ask,  if  3'ou  will,"  answered  Maude  ;  "  and  make  her  tell 
you  why  she  keeps  up  a  constant  correspondence  with  Adelaide ; 
and  why  Adelaide's  letters  are  never  to  be  seen.  Ask  her 
whether  she  is  not  encouraging  her  in  that  utter  folly  which 
went  on  at  Rutherford  ;  the  very  thought  of  it  would  make  me 
ill,  if  I  did  not  know  that  Adelaide  can  carry  on  as  many  flirta- 
tions as  there  are  days  in  the  year,  so  that  there  is  no  real 
danger  ;  but  Miss  Wentworth  should  never  have  demeaned  her- 
self to  bear  any  part  in  it ;  she  should " 

Blanche  broke  in  upon  the  sentence.  "  Maude,"  she  said 
earnestly,  "  you  are  making  me  very  unhappy  ;  any  ^cts  would 
bo  better  than  these  vague  hints." 

Maude's  tone  of  angry  sarcasm  changed  into  one  of  quiet 
seriousness,  when  she  saw  that  Blanche  was  really  distressed. 
"  I  have  spoken  in  this  way,"  she  said,  "  because  I  have  no 
actual  facts  to  bring  forward  ;  only  convictions  of  my  own,  from 
observation.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  how  Adelaide  behaved 
at  Rutherford,  and  how  annoyed  mamma  was.  I  did  not  tell 
yuu,  Blanche,  half  how  disgusting  the  whole  aflair  was  to  me.  I 
don't  know  whether  I  am  more  i'astidious  than  the  rest  of  the 
world,  but  when  I  see  that  sort  of  thing  going  on  it  makes  me 
iiate  myself  for  being  one  of  the  same  race.  Mamma  thought 
it  would  be  all  over  when  Adelaide  came  here,  which  was  more 
than  I  did ;  at  least,  I  was  sure  that  if  she  did  not  flirt  with  Mr. 
Wentworth,  she  would  with  some  one  else ;  and  so  she  has  done, 
us  you  may  have  seen.  Adelaide  is  one  of  those  persons  who 
can't  look  or  speak  without  flirting ;  but  I  did  not  know,  till  a 
few  days  ago,  that  she  has  not  given  up  the   old  folly.     I  sua- 


201:  THE    earl's    daughter. 

pcctad  it  from  seeing  letters  come  frequently  in  Miss  Went' 
worth's  handwriting,  and  I  taxed  Adelaide  with  it,  and  she  tried 
to  turn  off  the  subject,  but  she  could  not  deceive  me.  And  now 
suddenly,  without  any  invitation  from  my  mother,  they  have 
contrived  that  Miss  AVentworth  shall  come  here.  What  for,  I 
can't  pretend  to  say  ;  but  I  should  have  supposed  that  pride 
alone  might  have  prevented  her  from  intruding  herself  where 
she  must  be  aware  she  is  not  welcome."  Maude  paused ;  but 
Blanche,  without  venturing  to  reply,  walked  slowly  and  thought- 
fully towards  the  entrance  of  the  house.  "  You  will  not  believe 
me,  now  ?"  said  Maude,  following  her. 

Blanche  turned  round  quickly,  "  What  would  you  say,  if  I 
believed  accusations  against  you,  before  I  had  given  you  the 
opportunity  of  explanation  ?  " 

"  You  would  believe  them  instantly,"  exclaimed  Maude  ;  "  but 
your  affection  deceives  you  in  this  case." 

"  And  have  I  no  affection  for  you,  Maude  ?  " 

There  was  a  quivering  movement  about  Maude's  harsh, 
decided  mouth.  She  threw  herself  upon  a  bench,  and  when 
Blanche  stooped  to  kiss  her,  her  cheek  was  wet  with  tears. 

"  Dear  Maude,"  said  Blanche  kindly,  and  she  sat  down  by 
her.     A  proud  struggle  was  visible  on  Maude's  face. 

"  Not  pity !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Save  me  from  pity.  After 
all,  what  does  it  signify  to  me,  if  the  world  is  made  up  of 
hypocrites!  I  don't  mean  you,  Blanche,"  she  added,  laughing 
in  spite  of  herself  at  poor  Blanche's  expression  of  wonder  and 
horror ;  "  You  don't  belong  to  the  world  ;  but  it  is  so  wearing 
to  live  day  after  day  with  people  one  despises ;  to  see  no  beauty, 
nc  goodness  anywhere,  except — I  see  it  in  you  ;  but  it  is  weak 
goodness — superstition." 

"  Yet  I  am  happy,"  said  Blanche  quickly,  "  and  you  are 
not." 

A  crimson  flush  dyed  Maude's  sallow  cheek,  and  then  it 
faded  away  to  a  deadly  paleness,  and  she  answered,  "  If  I  am 
not  happy,  it  is  because  I  was  not  born  to  be  deceived." 

"  Suspicion  is  deceit,"  said  Blanche  ;  "  because  it  makes  us 
believe  evil  to  exist  where  it  does  not." 

"  But  it  does  exist ;  one  sees  it  everywhere,"  exclaimed  Maude  ; 
"  only  it  puts  on  a  mask.  Look  at  that  woman  Mrs.  Cuthbert 
Grrey,  my  mother's  idol.  Such  a  good  churchwoman  !  a  perfect 
example  !  reads  sermons  by  the  hundreds,  and  buys  good  little 
books  by  cartloads.  I  have  heard  her  talk,  until,  if  I  had  not 
known  her,  I  could  have  supposed  she  was  St.  Cuthbert,  instea.? 


TflE      EARL    S      DAUGHTER.  205 

of  Mrs.  CiUlilx-it;  but  I  sat  in  tlie  drawing-room  tliis  morning, 
and  watched  her  toadying  Lord  Elsuiere,  in  hopes  of  making 
him  fall  in  love  with  her  eldest  girl,  until  I  could  bear  it  no 
longer.  If  I  had  had  a  scourge  1  verily  beUeve  I  should  have 
used  it." 

"  One  might  be  tempted  to  do  so,  sometimes,"  said  Blanche, 
smiling,  "  if  one  might  begin  upon  oneself." 

"  Oneself !  "  and  Maude's  face  became  very  sad ;  "  but  I  must 
leave  that,  and  I  did  not  intend  to  talk  of  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey, 
only  the  woman  drives  me  wild.  You  may  as  well  go 
Blanche  ;  you  won't  be  undeceived,  so  you  must  follow  yout 
own  course." 

Blanche  did  not  like  to  go,  Maude's  face  was  so  worn  and 
'aarassed  that  it  grieved  her  to  look  at  it.  "  I  should  like  to 
make  you  happier,  Maude,"  she  said,  still  lingering. 

"  Then  close  my  e\'es  and  stop  my  thoughts,"  replied  Maude, 
bitterly.  "  Thought !  "  and  she  put  her  hand  to  her  forehead, 
as  if  it  ached  terribly.  "  Oh  !  if  one  could  only  cease  from  it 
but  for  one  day." 

"  Yet  it  is  the  great  object  of  education,  so  people  say,  to 
make  one  think,"  observed  Blanche. 

"  Is  it  ?  I  don't  know  ;  I  never  was  educated.  Xo,  never," 
she  repeated,  answering  her  cousin's  look  of  surprise.  "  I  was 
left  to  bad  governesses,  and  never  went  out  of  the  school-room. 
I  learnt  just  what  I  chose — what  I  could  teach  myself; — history 
and  geography  sometimes — thought  always.  I  began  thinking 
when  I  was  a  child — when  people  supposed  I  was  playing  with 
my  doll  :  I  thought  al)out  the  doll, — why  it  did  not  speak — 
w  liy  it  had  no  mind — how  it  diflered  from  me,  and  I  have  gone 
on  thinking  ever  since  :  yes,  on,  and  on,  and  on,  until — Blanche, 
have  you  ever  thought  till  you  felt  that  the  next  step  would  l>o 
insanity? — That  is  what  I  have  done,"  she  continued,  without 
wailing  for  an  answer ;  '*  and  I  have  found  others  who  have 
done  the  same — clever  men,  men  I  thought  I  could  r(  verence.  I 
met  with  them  abroad  ;  but  they  were  all  alike — all  disappoint- 
nig  in  practice  and  differing  in  theory.  There  was  no  rest ; 
what  one  believed  the  others  disbelieved." 

"  Can  there  ever  be  rest  in  the  systems  and  theories  of  our 
own  forming  ?  "  said  Blanche,  gently. 

Maude  sliook  her  head.  "  Ah  !  Blanche,  there  is  our  differ- 
ence. I  cannot  walk  blindfold.  I  cannot  bow  my  intellect  to 
forms  and  superstitions." 

"  I  hope  I  could  not  either,"  replied  Blanche ;  "  but  I  ara 


206  THE    earl's    daughter. 

afraid  we  can  scarcely  understand  each  other ;  we  have  been 
broug-ht  up  so  differently.  I  was  told  what  was  true,  as  a  child  ; 
1  was  not  left  to  find  it  out  for  myself.  I  was  taught  to  obey, 
too,  before  I  knew  the  reason  why.  Now  that  I  am  beginning 
to  think  for  myself,  I  see  that  what  I  learnt  agrees  wiih  thb 
Bible,  and  if  I  try  to  follow  it,  it  makes  me  happy ;  I  have  no 
room,  therefore,  for  doubts." 

This  was  said  so  simply  and  confidently,  that  Maude  looked 
up  in  astonishment.  "  We  do  differ,  indeed,"  she  said  proudly. 
"  Like  3'ou,  I  am  a  Christian ;  but  I  must  put  my  own  inter- 
pretation upon  the  Bible.  To  yield  my  opinion  to  the  judgment 
of  others,  I  must  be  a  child  again." 

"  Must  you  ?  "  and  Blanche  waited  for  a  few  moments  in 
thought,  and  then  added, — "  A  grown-up  person  might  pray  to 
be  taught  rightly,  and  might  go  to  Church  regularly,  and  read 
the  Bible,  and  try  to  be  good  as  far  as  he  knew,  in  spite  of  the 
difficulties,  and  then,  perhaps,  they  would  go  away." 

"  And  that  is  what  you  would  have  me  do,"  said  Maude, 
quickly. 

"  Yes,  it  would  be  better,  I  think— safer  than  argument — 
because — " 

"  Go  on — go  on,"  said  Maude,  impetuously. 

"  Safer,"  continued  Blanche,  more  firmly,  "  because  we  can- 
not doubt  for  ever." 

"  No,  there  will  be  certainty  before  long  for  us  all,"  said 
Maude,  gravely. 

"  And  if  it  should  be  the  certainty  of  all  being  true  which 
we  doubted  and  thought  difficult  to  understand,"  pursued 
Blanche,  "  it  would  be  very  horrible."  Maude's  brow  contracted 
as  with  pain. 

"  Very  horrible  !  would  it  not?"  repeated  Blanche.  "  If,  I 
mes.n,  we  had  gone  on  following  our  own  will,  because  we  had 
not  all  the  certainty  we  wished  for." 

Iler  voice  was  very  tremulous  as  she  said  this  ;  and  Maude 
saw  that  she  turned  pale,  "  You  are  ill,"  she  observed.  "  I 
have  kept  you  standing  too  long." 

"  No,  not  ill  ;  only  cold,"  replied  Blanche  ;  and  she  wrapped 
her  shawl  around  her. 

"  And  I  have  kept  you  from  Miss  Wentworth,"  said  Maude, 
a  little  sarcastically.     "  That  was  wrong  in  me,  too." 

Blanche  tried  to  smile,  but  it  was  not  a  subject  for  amuse- 
ment. 

"  You   really   don't  look    at    all   well,"   continued   Maude. 


THE    earl's    daughter.  207 

'  You  ought  not  to  have  gone  out  this  damp  day,  and  1  have 
ke})t  you  standing  and  walking  till  you  are  tired  to  death.  Do 
go  in  and  rest  before  you  see  Miss  Weutworth." 

Blanche  repeated  "that  it  was  only  the  cold  ;  a  fire  would 
make  her  quite  well ;  but  Maude  was  not  satisfied,  and  forget- 
ting her  own  grievances,  hurried  her  into  the  house,  and 
insisted,  with  the  most  persevering  and  even  affectionate  atten- 
tion, on  seeing  that  she  was  resting  comfortably  in  her  own 
room,  before  Eleanor  Wentworth  went  to  her. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

No  one  who  had  seen  the  Senilhurst  party  that  evening 
would  have  discovered  any  signs  of  unusual  ainioyance  or 
uncongeniality,  unless  upon  close  inspection,  and  after  intimate 
knowledge  of  the  characters  of  the  persons  collected  together. 

Blanche,  indeed,  sat  in  an  easy  chair,  looking  pale  and  talk- 
ing little ;  and  Lord  Rutherford  hovered  about  her  to  ward  off 
alt  that  might  ^disturb  her.  But  Blanche  smiled  and  seemed 
contented,  and  her  f;\ther  had  evidently  no  wish  except  to  be 
near  her,  and  was  quite  satisfied  when  he  found  her  pleased  in 
listening  to  Maude's  exquisite  singing,  and  in  the  intervals  when 
there  was  no  music  taking  a  part  in  a  conversation  he  w;is 
carrj'ing  on,with  Lady  Charlton  and  Mr.  Johnstone,  respecting 
a  living  in  his  gift  which  was  likely  soon  to  be  vacant. 

So  far  all  was  well ;  and  what  if  Adelaide's  manner  was 
absent  and  Maude's  cross,  if  Eleanor  Wentworth  was  shy  and 
Lady  Charlton  distant;  these  difterences  were  not  visible  to  the 
common  eye.  There  was  the  same  polish  of  refinement  and 
courtesy  over  all,  and  the  drawing-room  at  Senilhurst  might 
well  have  been  supposed  to  contain  as  large  an  amount  of 
comfort  and  freedom  from  restraint  and  care  as  could  be  found 
amongst  any  similar  portion  of  English  society. 

Blanche  could  not  suspect  evil ;  it  was  not  in  her  nature. 
She  was,  besides,  far  from  well,  and  did  not  feel  equal  to 
thought.  Sher  had  not  seen  Eleanor  for  nearly  half  an  hour 
after  her  conversation  with  Maude  ;  but,  when  they  did  meet, 
the  explanation  of  her  sudden  arrival  was  simple  enough  to  put 
to  flight  all  the  suspicions  which  Maude  would  have  raised. 
The  visit  to  Mr.  Johnstone  had  been,  Eleanor  said,  quite  unex- 
pected.    She  had  arrived  only  two  days  before  ;  Mr.  Johnstone 


208  THE    earl's    dauguter. 

had  insisted  u])on  bringing  her  to  Senilhurst,  as  Lady  Chailton 
had  given  jhiin  a  "carte  blanche"  to  introduce  any  of  hi* 
friends ;  and  her  name  had  not  been  mentioned  merely  to 
cause  an  amusing  surprise  to  Blanche.  Certainly,  she  allowed 
that  the  secret  had  been  entrusted  to  Adelaide,  but  this  was 
because — she  did  not  know  why,  exactly  ;  she  had  been  execut- 
ing commissions  for  Adelaide  in  London,  and  was  writing  tc 
Her  about  them,  and  that  put  it  into  her  head  to  name  it  She 
quite  supposed  that  Adelaide  would  have  mentio'ied  her  being 
in  London;  but  it  was  just  like  her  to  forget. 

Nothing  could  be  more  satisfiictory,  and  Eleanor  was  so 
pleased,  and  bright,  and  affectionate,  so  euchanted  to  see 
Blanche  again,  so  full  of  all  the  parish  ne\^'S  of  kutherford, 
that  it  would  liave  been  impossible  to  quarrel  with  her. 
Blanche  thought,  as  she  watched  her  that  evening,  how  superior 
she  was  to  every  one  else  in  the  room ;  graceful,  inteileclual, 
brilliant,  amiable ;  even  Lady  Charlton  was  obliged  lo  acquiesce 
in  the  praises  that  were  lavished  upon  her,  although  the  next 
moment  she  relapsed  into  coldness,  as  unpleasant  recollections 
forced  themselves  upon  her. 

"  Frances,  my  dear,"  said  Sir  Hugh,  who  sat  opposite  to 
Blanche,  in  a  gouty  chair,  trying  to  believe,  and  to  make  other 
persons  believe,  that  he  was  quite  well ;  "  Frances,  my  dear — 
my  dear  Lady  Charlton — Franre-  ''  Lady  Cnariton  was 
bending  her  head  low,  to  catch  a  passing  observation  of  Mr. 
Johnstone's ;  music  was  going  on  at  the  time :  dio  she  not,  or 
would  she  not  hear  ? — "  Frances — pshaw  ! — Maude,  tell  your 
mother  I  want  to  speak  to  her." 

Lady  Charlton  did  hear  then  ;  she  smiled  sweetly  upon  Mr. 
Johnstone,  and  promised  to  return  in  an  instant. 

"  You  wanted  to  say  something  to  me,  Sir  Hugh.  Shal'  I 
ring  for  Pearson  ?" 

"  Pearson — folly  !  what  are  you  talking  of?" 

"  Every  one  will  excuse  you,"  continued  Lady  Charlton, 
quite  amiably;  "  I  was  saying  to  Mr.  Johnstone,  just  now,  that 
you  were  much  later  to-night  than  usual." 

Sir  Hugh  very  nearly  knocked  away  the  pillows  in  his  gouty 
chair  ;  "  1  tell  j'ou,  Frances,  I  am  not  going.  All  I  wanted  to 
say  was," — his  voice  sank  confidentially, — "  that  now  Miss 
Wentworth  is  here,  we  may  as  well  persuade  her  to  stay.  It 
\s  rot  worth  while  for  her  to  go  back  with  Mr.  Johnstone." 

"  Very  well — yes,  we  will  see ;  to-morrow  will  do."  Lady 
n  arlton  was  hurrying  away  as  fast  as  possible. 


T  XI  E      EARL     S      DAUGHTER.  20P 

"  But  listen,  Frances,  listen,"  and  Sir  Huprh  laid  a  detainiiiii 
hand  on  her  dress;  "  I  shall  ask  her  presently;  I  think  it  \? 
right.  Dr.  AYentworth  is  an  old  family  friend ;  Mrs.  Weutwortb 
too  ;  very  good  people,  highly  respectable." 

Sir  Hugh  was  gradually  working  himself  into  a  fit  of  excite- 
ment, and  Lady  Charlton  was  in  an  agony  lest  the  brilliant 
variations  upon  the  piano  should  suddenly  cease.  "  Very  well 
— yes,  we>^ill  see,"  she  repeated  again. 

"  I  like  her,"  continued  Sir  Ilugh ;  "  she  is  very  handsome, 
dresses  well."  Lady  Charlton's  fidget  increased  every  moment ; 
in  another  minute,  Thalberg's  variations  would  infallibly  come 
to  an  end ;  "  We  will  settle  it  at  once  and  then  I  shall  go  to 
bed." 

"  But,  my  dear  Sir  Hugh,  hush — pray  be  quiet ;  trust  it 
to  me." 

"  It  is  the  right  thing  to  do,"  pursued  Sir  Hugh  ;  "  it  will 
please  Blanche — please  Lord  liutherford  ;  it  is  the  sort  of  thin<T 
one  is  bound  to  do." 

"  Yes,  yes,  of  course  ;  we  will  talk  about  it — only  just — of 
course  you  will  have  your  own  way.  I  will  go  and  say  a  few 
words  to  Mr.-Johnstone  first." 

Sir  Ilugh  allowed  her  to  depart ;  but  she  heard  him  mutter 
to  himself — "It's  right,  quite  right;  for  ten  da3-s  or  a  fort- 
nifjht  we  shall  manage  very  well.  Her  brother  can  come  and 
fetch  her." 

Just  then  Eleanor  left  the  piano,  where  she  had  been  standing 
to  turn  over  the  leaves  of  Miss  Caroline  Grey's  music-book. 

Lady  Charlton  kept  Mr.  Johnstone's  few  words  for  a  better 
opportunity  ;  and  seizing  upon  Eleanor,  carried  her  ofi"  to  the 
ante-room. 

She  must  apologise,  she  said,  for  being  a  little  unceremonious  ; 
but  she  really  was  anxious  to  obtain  Miss  Wentworth's  co-opera- 
lion  in  a  jilan  for  detaining  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Johnstone  a  day  or  two 
longer  at  Senilhurst.  She  was  afraid  it  might  be  inconvenient. 
Blanche  had  told  her  that  Miss  Wentworth's  stay  in  that  part  of 
the  country  was  to  be  very  short  ;  and  she  could  not,  under  tlu 
circumstances,  say  anything,  however  glad  she  should  have  been 
to  have  ha(^  the  ])leasure  of  a  long  ^nsit  at  Senilhurst.  Nit 
doubt  Mrs.  Wentworth  must  be  very  anxious  for  her  daughter's 
return,  and  they  must  look  forward  to  a  future  occasion — a  more 
fortunate  one — when  engagements  on  both  sides  would  not  be 
so  pressing.  But  there  were  a  few  days  free  now,  before  the 
house  would  be  full.     Could  not  Miss  VVentworth  i'ftru-u'<^.  Mi 


210  THE     earl's    daughter. 

and  ^frs.  Johnstone  to  remnin  with  her  at  Sonilliurst,  if  it  wore 
only  till  Saturday — from  Wednesday  till  Saturday  ?  Surely  a 
clergyman  might  spare  two  days ;  and  she  would  let  thein 
return  quite  early  on  Saturday  morning,  if  it  were  necessary. 
If  Miss  AVentworth  would  join  in  the  request,  there  could  be  no 
doubt  of  its  being  granted  ;  and  Blanche,  and  eveiy  one,  would 
be  pleased.  "  I*oor  Blanche  !  she  is  not  at  all  well,  I  am  afraid," 
concluded  Lady  Charlton.  "  It  was  very  imprudent  in  her  to 
go  out  to-day.     I  think,  for  her  sake,  you  must  consent." 

Eleanor  AVentworth  was,  in  general,  peculiarly  self-possessed  ; 
but  there  was  a  mixture  of  pride  and  awkwardness  in  the  cold 
politeness  of  her  manner,  as  she  thanked  Lady  Charlton  for  the 
invitation  to  herself,  but  feared  it  would  be  difficult  to  persuade 
Mr.  Johnstone  to  agree  to  the  proposal,  since  she  knew  that  his 
time  was  just  then  particularly  occupied.  Lady  Charlton  in- 
stantly grew  eager  to  carry  her  point.  It  would  be  vexatious, 
jirovoking,  in  every  way  disagreeable,  to  be  refused.  She  must 
have  it  settled  at  once  :  she  could  not  rest  till  it  was.  Might  she 
only  say  that  Miss  Wentworth  did  not  object  ?  And  in  answer 
to  the  acquiescence  which  followed  the  question.  Lady  Charlton 
was  so  grateful  and  cordial,  that  Eleanor  found  herself  compelled 
to  reciprocate  civilities,  and  be  extremely  obliged  for  an  atten- 
tion which  was  the  very  least  she  had  a  right  to  expect. 

A  short  conversation  of  entreaty  with  Mr.  Johnstone  followed, 
and  Lady  Charlton  presently  returned  to  Sir  Ilugh,  pleased  and 
placid.  She  had  gained  the  point  he  wished.  Miss  Wentworth 
was  going  to  stay  ;  how  long  she  did  not  say,  and  Sir  Hugh 
happily  did  not  ask ;  but  soothed  by  the  apj^arent  obedience  to 
his  will,  consented  to  retire  for  the  night. 

Blanche  had  observed  part  of  the  progress  of  this  arrange- 
ment, and  understood  it.  She  had  little  to  do  on  that  evening 
except  to  observe,  and  there  was  considerable  food  for  thought 
in  all  she  saw,  even  though  much  lay  concealed  from  her  usual 
unsuspiciousness.  Maude's  face  was  one  which  particularly 
engaged  her  attention.  It  was  more  than  commonly  sarcastic. 
She  spoke  but  little  to  Blanche ;  and  when  she  was  not  called 
upon  to  sing,  devoted  herself  principally  to  Lord  Erlsmere,  whom 
she  engaged  in  a  disquisition  upon  universal  sutiVage,  which  kept 
him  engrossed  for  more  than  half  the  evening,  much  to  tlie 
annoyance  of  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grev.  Blanche  could  scarcely  help 
smiling  at  the  cleverness  with  which  Maude  managed  to  defeat 
all  the  mother's  manoeuvres  in  her  daughter's  favor.  Yet  it  left 
H  very  disagreeable  impression  upon  her  mind,  unfavourable  to 


THE      E  A  R  J> '  S      DAUGHTER.  211 

all  parties  except  Lord  Erlsmere.  Blanclie  did  not  foel  oblio-ed 
to  Maude  for  having  withdrawn  the  veil,  and  given  her  an 
insight  into  what  was  going  on  behind  the  scenes.  It  was  low, 
unlady-like,  to  say  nothing  more,  and  as  she  looked  on,  and  found 
herself  attributing  motives,  and  suspecting  double  meanings, 
she  felt  ashamed  of  herself  as  if  she  also  was,  in  a  me^isure,  a 
party  to  the  conduct  which  she  disapproved. 

"  1  tliink-you  had  better  go  to  bed,  my  love,"  said  the  earl, 
coming  behind  her  chair,  when  the  time-piece  struck  teu  o'clock. 
"  Y^  can  slip  away  without  being  noticed." 

Blanche  prepared  to  go,  for  she  was  very  tired. 

Maude,  who  was  standing  near  the  door,  stopped  her  when 
slie  was  leaving  the  room.  "  Are  you  going,  Blanche  ? — gooc 
night." 

"  Good  night,"  said  Blanche,  cheerfully ;  "  will  you  tell  Eleanoi 
to  come  to  me  presently  ?" 

"  If  you  wish  it — if  I  must." 

"  Why,  is  there  any  objection  ?"  asked  Blanche  ;  "  I  shall  nut 
keep  her  long." 

"  Forewarned,  forearmed,"  said  Maude,  coldly. 

Blanche  looked  seriously  annoyed,  and  answered,  "  You  can- 
not make  me  suspicious,  Maude.  After  all  you  said  this  after- 
noon there  was  nothing  that  could  not  be  explained." 

"  Time  will  prove,"  said  Maude,  in  the  same  provoking  tone. 

Blanche  turned  away  angrily  ;  but  she  could  not  bear  to  part 
in  such  a  spirit,  and  the  next  instant  she  smiled,  and  offered  her 
hand  to  her  cousin. 

The  hand  was  retained,  and  Maude,  looking  at  her  anxiously 
and  kindly,  said,  "  You  must  be  better  to-morrow." 

"  Yes,  1  hope  so  ;  I  am  nearly  sure  I  shall  be." 

"  And  you  will  promise  to  sleep  well." 

"  Yes,  if  I  can  ;  the  extent  of  this  world's  promises." 

"  Well,  then,  good  night,  once  more,"  and  Maude  walked 
away  to  the  piano,  and  Blanche  left  the  drawing-room. 


^   ■'  CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

Blanche  was  not  at  all  sorry  that  the  evening  was  over. 
Wlien  she  sat  down  alone  in  her  room,  she  looked  and  felt 
wearied  in  mind  and  body,  and  was  quite  startled  at  the  hag- 
gard  expression  of  her  own  face,  as  she  caught  sight  of  liei 


212  T  II  i:    earl's    b  a  u  g  n  t  e  r  . 

features  in  a  glass.  Illness  might  be  one  reason  fcr  lior  being 
depressed  ;  there  was  nothing  else  particularly  to  cause  it,  but 
she  felt  very  solitary,  all  the  more  so,  perhaps,  because  there  were 
so  many  about  her.  Yet  she  ought  not  to  be  solitary  when 
Eleanor  was  in  the  house  ;  a  year  before  she  would  have  said 
that  she  needed  no  other  companionship.  And  why  should  she 
now  ?  AVhat  change  had  come  over  her  ?  Iler  mind  travelled 
back  to  the  days  that  were  past :  long  past  they  seemed,  but 
that  was  a  delusion  ;  it  was  but  a  short  time  ;  yet  the  grey, 
weather-stained  walls  of  the  old  manor-house,  the  green  walks, 
the  trim  holly  hedge,  the  antique  dial  and  all  the  associations 
connected  with  them,  were  as  the  clear,  yet  faded  visions  of  a 
distant  land  ;  and  the  voice  of  the  friend  who  had  loved  her 
from  infancy,  though  sweet  to  her  recollection,  was  very  faint,  as 
the  dying  notes  of  music  which  we  shall  never  hear  again.  It 
is  hard  to  realize  the  death  of  our  own  life ;  we  never  do  so 
whilst  our  childish  associations  are  imbroken.  The  thought  of 
it  came  to  Blanche's  mind  with  awe  and  sadness,  as  she  tried  to 
recall  the  forms  of  those  by-gone  days  from  which  the  spirit 
had  departed  to  bear  an  undying  record  before  God.  Happy 
they  had  been,  very  happy  and  blest — more  blest  than  the  pre- 
sent— more  innocent  and  guileless ;  and  they  could  never  in 
any  way  return ;  years  could  never  restore  ignorance,  they  could 
never  make  to  her  unknown  what  once  was  known ;  they  could 
never  bring  back  confidence  where  it  had  been  disappointed. 
Yeai-s — they  stretched  far,  far  out,  interminably  it  seemed  ;  and 
they  must  be  met,  endured,  with  all  their  possible  trials,  with 
the  risk,  the  possibility  of — Blanche  shuddered,  her  heart  grew 
faint  ;  it  was  a  real,  physical  faintness,  for  the  next  instant  a 
sharp  pain  shot  through  her  frame,  and  she  leant  back  in  her 
chair,  and  gasped  for  breath. 

Eleanor  Wentworth  knocked  at  the  door.  Blanche  said, 
"  come  in,"  as  loudly  as  she  could.  The  pain  had  been  only 
momentary,  and  she  did  not  like  to  think  of  it. 

"  Xot  undressed,  Blanche,"  said  Eleanor,  as  she  came  up  to 
her  :  "  that  is  very  naughty." 

"I  sat  by  the  fire,  thinking,"  replied  Blanche,  "  and  expect- 
ing you.     Why  did  you  not  come  before  ?" 

"  I  did  not  miss  you  at  tii-st  when  you  went ;  and  your  cousin 
Maude  only  told  me  to  come  to  you  a  few  minutes  ago,"  replied 
Eleanor. 

"  Maude  is  very  strange,"  said  Blanche,  thoughtfully.  "  But 
tt.ll   me,  Eleanor  ;     I  understood  a  great  deal   that  went  on 


THE      EARL    S      DAUGHTER.  213 

(J.iwn  stairs,  thougli  I  only  hoard  half.     IIow  long  are  3-011  to 
stay  r 

"  Two  days,"  answered  Eleanor,  shortly. 

"Two  days  only  ?" 

"  Lady  Charlton  has  not  given  me  the  opportunity  of  staying 
longer." 

''  It  is  vexatious,"  said  Blanche,  "  very." 

"  Yes,  awi  to  find  you  not  well,  besides  ;  and  to  have  seen  so 
little  of  you  all  the  evening.  However,  one  must  bear  it,  and 
be  tljflukful,  I  suppose." 

Blanche  was  chilled,  for  Eleanor's  tone  was  petulant.  "  We 
shall  be  able  to  talk  to-morrow,"  she  said,  soothingly  ;  "  and, 
Eleanor,  you  must  not  be  hard  upon  my  aunt  ;  she  has  reasons, 
you  know,  for  not  being  quite  as  cordial  as  one  could  wish." 

Eleanors  cheek  flushed  with  deep  crimson,  and  she  exclaimed, 
"  Of  course  I  know.  She  does  not  consider  the  son  of  a  country 
clergvraan  a  fit  connection  for  her  family.  Yet  I  could  tell  her 
tharthe  Wentworths  are  an  older  race  than  any  other  in  the 
county." 

"  It  is  not  the  question  of  family  ;  indeed  you  must  not  think 
that,"  said  Blanche,  earnestly.  "  If  your  brother — ."  She 
stopped,  for  the  observation  might  have  been  an  awkward  one. 

"  I  understand  wdiat  you  would  say,"  replied  Eleanor,  with  an 
air  of  great  candour.  "  If  my  brother  was  a  dashing  man  of 
fashion,  with  his  four  or  five  thousand  a  year  ;  or  even  if  he  had 
the  promise  of  a  good  living,  with  a  deanery  or  bishopric  in 
perspective.  Lady  Charlton  would  not  let  the  question  of  family 
interfere  ;  but  being  as  he  is,  about  to  take  orders,  and  live  a 
quiet,  serious  life,  as  a  curate  in  a  country  village,  she  does  not 
deem  it  a  suitable  prospect.  I  do  not  blame  her  ;  I  do  not 
kiiow  that  any  one  could  ;  only,  Adelaide  may  go  farther  and 
fare  worse." 

Blanche  was  more  perplexed  than  before  what  to  say.  The 
tone  Eleanor  was  adopting  was  quite  new  to  her.  She  seemed 
to  think  the  affair  serious. 

"  You  do  Charles  injustice  yourself,"  continued  Eleanor. 
"  When  you  ^aw  him  flirting — for  he  did  flirt,  I  grant,  at 
Rutherford-— you  put  him  down  as  a  silly,  vain  young  man :  he 
is  very  far  from  that  :  or,  at  least,  if  he  is  vain,  he  has  great 
counterbalancing  qualities.  All  that  frippery  and  folly  will  go 
when  he  is  ordained." 
Blanche  was  silent. 
"  What  are  you  thinking  of?"  asked  Eleanor,     llcr  voice  was 


214 


THE      EARL     S      DAUGHTER, 


nervously  eager,  and  she  repeated  again, — "  What  are  you 
thinking  of?     I  must  know." 

"  Should  it  not  go  before  he  is  ordained  ?"  asked  Blanche, 
.|uietly. 

Eleanor  drew  back  for  an  instant ;  then  she  answered,  hur- 
riedly,— "  Yes,  yes,  certainly ;  before — at  the  time  when  he  is 
ordained.  lie  will  be  quite  a  different  person  by-and-by,  you 
will  see." 

"  But  will  by-and-by  do  ?"  pursued  Blanche,  "  Can  it  ever 
be  right  to  take  such  a  responsibility  without  being  very 
devoted — very  good,  beforehand — a  long  time  beforehand  ?"  she 
added,  becoming  bolder. 

Eleanor's  face  showed  much  more  vexation  than  the  occa;«ion 
seemed  to  warrant ;  but  she  only  replied, — "  Well  !  well  !  we 
won't  talk  of  it  now,  Blanche.  You  are  prejudiced,  I  arr, 
afraid ;  so  is  Lady  Charlton.  We  won't  spoil  our  few  hours 
together  by  discussion." 

Blanche  looked  sorry,  and  observed,  it  was  very  foolish  of  her 
to  say  such  things  ;  it  must  seem  unkind,  when  Eleanor  was  so 
fond  of  her  brother  ;  but  it  was  hard  to  keep  back  her  opinions, 
where  she  had  been  accustomed  to  tell  them  so  openly. 

_  Eleanor  was  standing  near  the  fire.  She  bent  down  and 
kissed  Blanche,  and  fixed  her  eyes  upon  her  intently,  but  without 
speaking. 

"  I  rnay  tell  you  all,  I  think  ;  may  I  not  1"  said  Blanche, 
answering  the  look. 

There  was  another  pause.  Eleanor's  eyes  glistened  ;  she 
seemed  lost  in  thought. 

"  May  I  not  ?"  repeated  Blanche. 

"  Yes,  all  ;  undoubtedly.  Y"ou  are  very  tired  ;  shall  I  ring 
for  your  maid  ?" 

"  In  a  minute  ;  only  I  am  so  afraid  I  have  pained  you." 

Eleanor  answered  by  another  kiss — warm,  affectionate  as  in 
the  years  of  their  happy  intercourse  at  St.  Ebbe's. 

The  bell  was  rung,  Eleanor  departed,  and  Blanche  was  left 
to  think  over  what  had  been  said,  and  to  ponder  upon  the  cause 
of  that  sharp,  warning,  momentary  agony  ; — what  did  it  mean  ? 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

Eleanor's   step,    as    she    moved   along   the   gallery   from 


THE      earl's      liAUGHTER.  215 

DlaiK-lic's  room,  was  steal tliy  and  quick  ;  but  she  ])a\jse>l  at  the 
top  ot"  the  stairciise  to  Hsteu  to  what  was  going  on  below.  All 
the  guests  not  staying  in  the  house  had  taken  their  leave  ;  and 
now  there  were  parting  good-nights  and  cheerful  last  words  said 
as  the  rest  of  the  party  broke  up.  She  heard  Mr.  Johnstone 
and  Lady  Charlton  speaking  of  the  plans  for  the  next  dav. 
That  was  a  satisfaction,  as  it  showed  that  he  had  not  chan^'ed 
his  mind  aboot  remaining  at  Senilhurst.  Eleanor  had  a  half 
inclination  to  go  down  again  and  inquire  of  Mrs.  Johnstone,  to 
be  quiie  sure  of  the  fact ;  but  the  sight  of  Maude  coming  up 
the  stairs  had  a  sudden  effect  upon  her  intentions,  and  with  the 
same  quick  and  quiet  step  as  before,  she  went  on,  reached  the 
further  end  of  the  galler}^  and,  opening  a  door  which  led  to 
the  apartments  in  the  east  wing,  found  her  way  amidst  passages 
and  turnings,  to  a  small  sitting-room,  out  of  which  two  doors 
opened.  A  hasty  double  knock  at  one  of  these  was  answered 
by  Adelaide  Chailton,  who  exclaimed,  "Come  at  last, 
Eleanor !" 

"  Hush  !  hush !"  and  Eleanor  put  her  finger  to  her  lips. 
"  Maude  will  be  here  in  one  instant ;  let  me  in." 

Adelaide  threw  open  the  door,  which  Eleanor  took  care  to 
bolt  again,  and  then  Adelaide,  motioning  to  Eleanor  to  sit 
down  by  the  fire,  said,  "  Well,  what  success  ?  what  does  Blanche 
think  ?" 

"  My  dear  Adelaide  !  how  wild  you  are.  Blanche,  of  course, 
thinks  nothing,  and  knows  nothing." 

"  What,  have  you  not  asked  her  ?" 

"  No,  not  this  evening.     I  only  sounded  her  a  little." 

"  Sound  !"  repeated  Adelaide,  in  a  tone  of  vexation.  "  But, 
what  is  there  to  hinder  you  from  speaking  out  at  once  ?  Why 
can't  you  say,  Your  father  will  have  a  living  in  his  gift  soon,  and 
I  wish  he  would  promise  it  to  my  brother  T' 

"  Oh  !  Adelaide  !  can't  you  understand  ? —  to  ask  a  favour  ! 
— to  put  oneself  under  an  obligation  I — there  is  nothing  more 
difficult." 

"  But  not  between  friends — persons  like  you  and  Blanche, 
who  were  brought  up  together." 

Adelaide  thtew  herself  back  in  an  ea'^y  chair,  and  angrily 
pushing  aside  a  footstool,  continued,  "  I  see  how  it  is  ;  we  are 
resting  upon  a  broken  reed.  I  told  Charles  it  would  be  so 
long  ago." 

"  You  may  say  what  you  will,  Adelaide,"  replied  Eleanor, 
with  some  dignity  of  manner.     "  If  you  will  not  trust  me,  you 

io 


216  THE    earl's    daughter. 

must  take  your  own  way ;  but  one  tiling  I  am  quite  sure  of 
that  mine  is  the  only  right  and  wise  one." 

"  I  don't  see  why  he  is  to  be  tied  down  to  that  odious  pro- 
fession," observed  Adelaide,  petulantly. 

"  Merely  because  his  whole  education  has  been  a  preparation 
for  it,"  said  Eleanor  ;  "  and  that  it  would  break  my  mother's 
heart  if  he  were  to  give  it  up." 

"  But  he  does  not  like  it ;  he  is  not  fit  for  it,"  said  Adelaide. 

"  Yes,  begging  your  pardon,  he  does  like  it,  and  he  is  fit  for 
it,  when  you  do  not  influence  him  against  it." 

"  A  thousand  pities  he  ever  knew  me  then,"  said  Adelaide, 
sharply, 

Eleanor  did  not  contradict  her.  She  only  answered,  "  It  is 
U)0  late  to  think  of  that  now,  when  you  are  engaged." 

"  Who  brought  on  the  engagement  ?"  asked  Adelaide, 
satirically. 

"  Do  you  repent  it  ?"  said  Eleanor. 

"  Repent !  oh  dear,  no  !  not  in  the  least  I  What  a  strange 
notion  !  do  you  ?" 

Eleanor  was  silent. 

"  Do  you  ?"  again  repeated  Adelaide ;  and  Eleanor  was 
compelled  to  answer. 

"  I  should  not,  if  you  would  be  what  you  have  promised." 

"  What  I  have  promised  to  be  when  I  am  married,"  re- 
peated Adelaide.  "  It  will  be  time  enough  to  think  of  that 
by-and-by." 

"  It  would  be  better  to  begin  at  once." 

"  We  wont  sermonise,"  exclaimed  Adelaide,  impatiently. 
"  You  know  I  have  an  insurmountable  objection  to  sermons. 
If  any  harm  comes  of  our  engagement,  Eleanor,  you  will  have 
no  one  to  thank  for  it  but  yourself.  When  Charles  and  I  were 
at  Rutherford,  we  had  no  more  idea  of  anything  serious,  than 
we  have  now  of  travelling  to  the  moon.  It  was  entirely 
through  correspondence,  and  messages  aad  that  sort  of  thing, 
that  the  aftair  came  to  a  point.  I  declare  I  should  have 
forgotten  him  by  this  time,  if  you  had  not  so  constantly  reminded 
me  of  him." 

"  I  was  obliged  to  repeat  what  he  said,"  replied  Eleanor ; 
conscience  reproaching  her  for  untruth  as  she  uttered  the 
words. 

"  Well !  obliged  or  not  obliged,  you  managed  to  make  me 
think  of  him,  and  this  is  the  consequence ;  and,  having  led  us 
into  the  scrape,  all  you  can  possibly  do  now  is  to  help  us  out 


THE      EARLS      DAUGHTER.  217 

•A  \t.  The  Idea  of  going  to  mamma  with  the  news  that  I  am 
tDgngeJ  to  a  man,  without  any  prospect  but  a  country  curacy, 
i-  an  absurdity;  I  wont  do  it." 

"But  if  you  must  f 

"  There  is  no  must ;  I  don't  acknowledge  any." 

"And  tlie  alternative  will  be — what  T' 

Adelaide  laughed  heartily.  "  I  am  not  going  to  let  you  into 
all  our  secrHS,  Eleanor ;  you  know  too  much  already.  'J'rust 
us,  if  you  will  not  manage  matters  for  us,  we  shall  manage  them 
somehow  for  ourselves ;  and  soon  too.  I  have  no  notion  of 
hanging  on  from  week  to  week,  in  this  way.  It  destroys  all 
the  pleasure  of  one's  present  life,  without  giving  one  a  prospect 
of  anything  better." 

"  Charles  is  obliged  to  you,"  said  Eleanor,  gravely.  "  I 
should  have  thought  that,  being  certain  of  his  affection,  you 
miirht  have  been  well  contented  to  wait  till  he  can  come  for- 
ward openly." 

"  His  affection  !  yes,  of  course,  I  am  certain  of  that,  and 
satisfied.  ]3ut  it  is  a  little, — however,  I  won't  frighten  your 
propriety  ;  only  perhaps  you  can  understand  that  now  and 
then  it  is  jusf  a  wee  bit  uncomfortable  to  go  about  the 
woi-ld  with  one's  hands  and  feet  tied ;  and  not  to  be  able 
to  mention  it.     One  moves  awkwardly." 

"  There  may  be  soraethirg  in  that,"  said  Eleanor,  thought- 
fully. "  But  what  is  still  more  important,  I  am  sure  it 
is  not  quite  right.  Your  mother  and  my  mother  ought 
to  know  it.  I,  for  one,  should  be  miserable  at  the  conceal- 
ment, if  there  were  not  such  good  reasons  for  it  at  present, 
and  if—" 

"Well — what?  What  salve  have  you  found  for  that  very 
fidgety  conscience  of  yours  ?" 

"Very  sufficient  salve,"  replied  Eleanor.  "You  and  Charles 
settled  your  affairs  yourselves.  I  was  no  party  to  the  actual 
engagement." 

"  That  is,"  exclaimed  Adelaide,  her  eyes  sparkling  with  irrita- 
tion, "you  showed  us  the  road,  and  led  us  to  the  point,  and 
gave  us  a  little, push,  and  then  hurried  away,  that  you  might 
be  able  to  say  you  did  not  see.     Oh  1  Eleanor." 

Eleanor  blushed ;  yet  she  could  not  rest  without  a  fuilher 
effort  at  self-vindication. 

"  You  are  exaggerating,"  she  said.  "  I  did  not  know  what 
was  going  to  happen.  I  scarcely  ever  suspected  it.  When 
Chatles  UAd  mc  you  were  engaged,  I  was  utterly  amazed. 


218  THE    earl's    daughter. 

"  Then  what  did  you  think  we  were  about  ?"  inquired  Ade- 
laide.    "  What  pretty  game  were  we  playing  ?" 

Eleanor  was  too  much  ashamed  to  reply.  IIow  could  she 
owe  that  she  had  calculated  u[)on  Mr.  Weiitworth's  unsteadi- 
ness of  disposition,  and  Adelaide's  habit  of  flirting,  and  suffered 
lierself  to  encourage  them  in  folly,  whilst  deluding  herself  b\ 
thinking  it  would  come  to  nothing  ?  And  all  this  partly  from 
a  weak  wish  to  please  her  brother ;  partly  from  finding  a  sill\ 
pleasure  in  watching  an  affair  of  the  kind  for  the  first  time,  and 
feeling  herself  a  person  of  importance  ;  and  partly  from  the 
secret  desire  to  keep  up  an  acquaintance  which  promised  a 
good  deal  of  amusement,  and  possibly  an  .ntroduction,  by-and- 
by,  to  gayer  society  than  she  could  meet  with  at  Rutherford. 

It  wiis  very  unlike  the  conduct  to  be  expected  from  Mrs. 
Howard's  pupil ;  but,  perhaps,  the  person  whom  it  would  least 
have  surprised,  was  Mrs.  Howard  herself.  Eleanor  was  not  so 
very  different  now  from  what  she  had  been  in  former  days. 
Circumstances  had  brought  out  the  weak  points  of  her  charac- 
ter, and  rendered  their  consequences  more  important ;  but  the 
orig-inal  faults  were  the  same  ; — vanity  and  love  of  excitement — 
known  and  acknowledged,  but  never  thoroughly  struggled 
against. 

"  I  don't  like  this  new  mood  of  yours,"  said  Adelaide,  after 
a  pause,  finding  that  Eleanor  sat  abstractedly  gazing  on  the 
fire.  "  I  had  looked  forward  to  your  coming  as  the  end  of  all 
my  difficulties.  I  thought  you  would  go  at  once  to  Blanche, 
— entreat  her  compassion ;  and  then,  when  we  had  engaged 
Lord  Rutherford's  interest,  that  the  thing  would  have  been 
kno'^n  and  settled." 

Eleanor  could  not  help  smiling  in  spite  of  herself.  "Ade- 
laide i  when  will  you  learn  common  sense  ?  How  can  you 
imagine  it  possible  to  settle  a  business  hke  this  in  a  minute  ? 
Even  supposing  I  could  bring  Blanche  over  to  your  side,  and 
S'lpposing  Lord  Rutherford  were  to  promise  Charles  twenty 
thousand  a  year,  instead  of  a  living  worth  twelve  hundred, — 
how  can  you  suppose  that  Lady  Charlton  would  be  brought 
round  in  such  a  moment  .^" 

"  Oh  !  there  are  two  strings  to  that  bow,"  replied  Adelaide. 
"  If  mamma  will  not  consent,  papa  will ;  that  I  am  quite  sure 
of.  Pearson  told  my  maid,  the  other  day,  that  he  was  wonder- 
fully fond  of  Charles,  and  meant  to  have  him  asked  here.  I 
djn't  want  that,  though,  just  yet." 

"  No,  indeed  ;"  and  Eleanor  inwardly  trembled  at  the  storms 
which  might  arise  fi'om  so  imprudent  a  step. 


THE     earl's     daughter.  21S 

"  I  duii'tsoe  why  you  should  say,  No,  indeed  !  in  that  tone,'' 
exclaimed  Adelaide.  "I  don't  want  it  to  be  just  yet;  but  I 
don't  know  why  you  should  be  so  afraid.  AVe  are  not  quite 
fiuch  babies  as  not  to  understand  keojjing  our  own  counsel." 

"  There  are  eyes  about  you,"  said  Eleanor. 

"  Mamma  !  3'es,  she  is  a  regular  Argus." 

"  And  your  sister." 

"  That  is  t<f  be  considered,  certainly  ;  I  am  awfully  afraid  of 
Maude." 

"  Siy  am  I,"  replied  Eleanor. 

"  She  is  a  pei-son  to  be  afraid  of;  tough,  leathery,"  said  Ade- 
laide. "  She  never  did  a  foolish  thing  from  the  time  she  wa« 
born.  And  she  can  look  through  one  when  she  chooses  it.  1 
declare,  if  it  was  not  for  her  German  metaphysics,  I  could  not 
live  in  the  house  with  her.  IIap]iily,  they  make  her  so  puzzle- 
beaded  that  she  only  sees  one-half  of  what  is  going  on." 

There  was  a  loud  angry  knock  at  the  door.  xVdelaide 
started,  and  exclaimed,  "  That  is  her  knock." 

Eleanor  turned  pale.  "  Are  you  sure  she  does  not  see  more 
than  one-half  already  ?"  she  asked  in  a  whisper. 

Adelaide  made  no  answer.  Eleanor  took  up  her  candle  to 
go.  "  Adelaide  and  I  have  been  gossiping,"  she  said,  as  an 
explanation  to  Maude,  when  the  door  was  opened.  "  It  is  very 
foolish,  I  own." 

Maude  took  no  notice.  "  You  have  some  books  of  mine, 
which  I  want,  Adelaide,"  she  said. 

Eleanor  felt  herself  growing  nervous;  and,  to  hide  her 
confusion,  would  have  pretended  to  search  for  the  volumes 
wanted  ;  but  Maude  prevented  her.  There  was  no  occasion  for 
Miss  Wentworth  to  trouble  herself,  she  said.  Adelaide  knew 
quite  w^ell  where  the  books  were ;  and,  as  she  spoke,  she  placed 
herself  near  the  doorway,  in  such  a  position  that  Eleanor  was 
compelled  to  confront  her.  Iler  glance  was  proud  and  search- 
ing ;  and  Eleanor  shrank  from  it. 

"  Good  night !  Adelaide,"  she  said,  in  as  light  a  tone  as  sha 
could  assume.  She  would  have  given  her  hand  to  Maude,  bnt 
it  was  not  taken. 

"  Good  night,  ISIiss  Wentwoi'th,"  was  repeated,  haughtily ; 
and  Eleanor  went  to  her  room,  humbled  and  unhaj)py. 


220  THE    earl's    daughter. 


CILVPTER  XXXVI. 

It  was  abort  a  week  from  that  time, — the  weather  was  col.i 
and  bk-ak,  even  for  the  autumn,  and  as  the  rough  Wasts  bowled 
round  the  old  parsonaj^e  at  Rutherford,  and  the  rain  pelted 
a,<,'ainst  the  latticed  windows,  Dr.  Wentworth  drew  his  chair 
near  to  the  tire,  and  congratulated  himself  that  his  work  fur 
the  day  was  over — that  there  was  no  case  of  illness  in  the 
parish  requiring  his  attention,  and  that  it  was  not  a  night  for 
the  evening  school,  or  for  any  other  duty  which  would  expose 
himself  or  his  parishioners  to  such  inclement  weather. 

"I  wish  Charles  was  equally  safe  from  it,"  said  Mrs.  "Went- 
worth, who  sat  at  work  opposite  to  her  husband.  She  was 
cutting  out  baby  clothes,  and  from  the  full  attention  which  she 
bestowed  upon  the  occupation,  it  might  have  been  supposed 
that  she  esteemed  it  the  most  important  duty  of  her  life. 

Dr.  Wentworth  looked  up  in  answer  to  the  remark,  and  said, 
in  an  apologetic  tone,  that  he  had  not  forgotten  Charles,  but 
that  young  men  thought  nothing  of  weather  when  there  was  a 
dinner  party  in  question. 

"And  I  should  hope  not  when  many  other  things  are  in 
question,"  replied  Mrs.  Wentworth  ;  "  but  that  does  not  pre- 
vent one,  I  am  afraid,  from  thinking  of  it  for  them.  However, 
Charles  must  accustom  himself  to" brave  a  great  many  worse 
trials  than  weather ;  so  it  may  be  as  well  for  him  to  begin  at 
once." 

_  She  relapsed  again  into  silence,  and  Dr.  Wentworth  read  to 
himself.  Nearly  half-an-hour  went  by  in  this  way ;  Mrs.  Went- 
worth worked  unremittingly.  There  was  something  almost 
painful  in  the  energy  with" which  she  cut,  and  folded,  and 
squared ;  placing  piece  after  piece  in  a  basket  that  stood  on  the 
table  by  her  side.  To  look  at  her  face,  with  its  expression  of 
intellect  and  resolution,  one  might  have  said  that  it  was  a  waste 
of  power  to  throw  so  much  vigour  into  a  mere  mechanical 
employment. 

"  A  quarter  to  ten,"  observed  Dr.  Wentworth,  looking  at  his 
watch  ; — "  time  for  the  servants  to  be  called  in,  my  dear." 

"  Yes,  if  you  please ;  will  you  ring  the  bell  ?"  and  with  the 
same  quiet  determination  of  manner,  Mrs.  Wentworth  moved 
away  her  work  to  another  part  of  the  room— placed  a  Bible  on 
the  table — arranged  the  chairs  for  the  servants,  and  prepared  to 
join  in  the  nightly  femily  service.    It  was  very   simple   and 


THE     EAULS     DAUGHTER.  221 

sliort;  ^  few  verses  from  the  New  Testament,  with  a  few  word? 
of  comment,  and  prayer.  Yet  there  was  somethinor  very  touch- 
ing and  impressive  in  the  earnest  exhortation  which  besouiilit 
all  who  were  present  to  cast  their  care  upon  One  who  cared  for 
them — whether  it  were  care  for  others  or  themselves — for  the 
needs  of  the  body,  or  the  claims  of  the  imperishable  soul.  Mi-s 
Wentworth  sat  with  her  hands  placed  one  upon  the  other,  and 
her  eyes  betTt  upon  the  floor;  not  a  muscle  of  her  featui-es 
moved,  and  her  voice,  as  she  joined  in  the  supplications  which 
follo\vtd,  was  clear  and  firm,  until  the  petition  for  the  absent  and 
the  loved.  Then,  for  a  moment  it  sank  ;  but  no  one  noticed  the 
change,  for  none  saw  the  secrets  of  the  mother's  heart,  save  He 
who  had  formed  it. 

"Do  you  mean  to  sit  up  for  Charles,  my  dear?"  said  Di. 
Wentworth  when  the  service  was  concluded. 

"  I  had  thought  of  doing  so ;  he  promised  to  be  home 
eaily  ?" 

"  But  you  will  do  him  no  good,  and  will  only  tire  yourself; 
you  had  much  better  not." 

"  I  have  some  work  to  finish,"  replied  Mrs.  "Wentworth,  pre- 
paring to  resuriie  her  former  employment. 

Dr.  Wentworth  saw  it  was  useless  to  remonstrate.  He  said, 
half  playfully  and  half  in  a  tone  of  vexation,  "  Well!  you  must 
have  your  own  way ; — wilful  women  always  do.  Only  don't 
ask  me  to  sit  up  with  you." 

Mrs.  Wentworth  smiled,  and  disowned  all  intention  of  inflict- 
ing such  a  penance  upon  him,  and  Dr.  Wentworth  went  away. 

The  room  looked  dreary  then.  It  is  strange  how  much  there 
is  in  association ; — how  dift'erent  a  solitary  hour  is  before  a 
household  has  been  broken  up  for  the  night  and  afterwards. 
Though  the  fire  may  blaze  just  as  cheerfully,  and  the  lamp  give 
the  same  bright  light,  a  sense  of  loneliness,  almost  of  awe,  insen- 
sibly creeps  over  one.  Mrs.  Wentworth  might  have  exjterieiiced 
something  of  the  kind,  for  she  soon  gave  up  her  work  and  tried 
to  read,  and  after  a  time,  putting  aside  the  book,  walked  about 
the  room,  and  listened  for  the  tram])ling  of  a  horse, — though 
she  knew  her  gonwas  not  likely  to  return  for  the  next  hour. 

That  hour  and  another  passed,  and  he  did  not  come.  Mrs. 
Wentworth  was  not  at  all  anxious ;  she  was  iKjt  a  nervous  per- 
son, and  she  did  not  think  that  any  accident  had  hap|)ened;  but 
she  did  think  that  Charles  had  been  induced  to  stay  longer  than 
be  ha<l  purposed.  It  was  a  slight  fault,  if  it  could  be  called  one ; 
but  she  was  not  in  a  mood  to  be  lenient  to  slight  faults.     Slif 


222  THE    earl's    daughter. 

grew  more  and  raore  restless — more  and  more  visibly  annoyed  ; 
and  when,  at  length,  the  bell  rang,  and  her  son  a|i})eared,  she 
greeted  him  with,  ''  You  are  an  hour  and  a  halt'  beyond  th« 
time  you  mentioned,  Charles  ?     Has  anything  happened?" 

"  Nothing — notiiing  at  all," — was  the  answer.  "  Am  T  so 
lafe? — I  did  not  know  it."  He  took  out  his  watch — "Not 
much  more  than  an  hour — I  really  could  not  help  it." 

Mrs.  Wentworth  did  not  directly  reply,  but  as  she  lighted  hei 
candle  to  go  to  bed,  she  said  : — "  It  is  a  great  pity,  Charles,  that 
you  cannot  learn  to  be  exact.  If  you  had  to'd  me  you  should 
not  be  home  till  twelve,  I  should  have  known  what  to  expect." 

Mr.  Wentworth  looked  provoked.  "  My  dear  mother,  I  really 
beg  your  pardon,  but — you  must  excuse  me, — I  did  not  ask  you 
to  sit  up."  lie  had  no  sooner  said  the  words  than  he  wasvexe<l 
with  himself  for  it.     He  saw  that  she  was  offended. 

"  Good  night,  Charles.  I  will  take  care  not  to  give  myself 
unnecessary  trouble  again." 

"  My  dear  mother  !"  and  he  went  up  to  her  and  kissed  her. 
"  I  cannot  bear  this.     It  was  very  silly  ;  very  wrong,  only — " 

"  Only  !"  and  Mrs.  Wentworth  gave  way  for  an  instant  to  her 
hitherto  repressed  feeling-s — "  Only,  Charles,  you  were  tempted, 
and  you  yielded." 

"  It  is  not  such  a  very  great  offence,"  replied  Charles,  relaps- 
ing again  into  bis  former  tone  of  indifference.  "  It  was  impos- 
sible to  get  away  sooner  ;  as  it  was,  I  was  one  of  the  first  to  go  ; 
and  really  it  was  no  case  of  temptation.  The  party  was  im- 
mensely stupid ;  not  a  single  person  there  whom  I  cared  to 
meet,  except  young  Johnstone." 

"  Was  he  there  ?"  exclaimed  Mi-s.  W^entworth  eagerly.  "  Did 
he  say  anything  about  Eleanor  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  he  told  me  what  I  knew— that  she  had  been  staying 

with  his  father  and  mother ;  and  that  she  was  with ;    she 

was  at  Senilhurst  now."  There  was  a  hesitation  in  Mr.  Went- 
worth's  manner,  which  however  did  not  occasion  any  remark. 

"  I  was  in  hopes  Eleanor  might  have  left  Senilhurst  by  this 
time,"  said  Mrs.  Wenhvorth.  "  It  is  vexatious  her  being  there 
at  all ;  but  I  suppose  she  could  not  help  it ;  and  now  the  stay- 
ing for  this  party  is  not  what  I  like." 

"  Eleanor  is  to  go  back  again  to  the  Johnstones,"  aaid  Mr. 
Wentworth  ;  "  and  it  struck  me — I  must  go  to  London  before 
long — I  might  just  as  well  bring  her  home." 

"  London  1  my  dear  Charles  I  you  must  go  to  London  before 
/our  ordination  !     What  are  you  thinking  of?" 


THE      E  A  K  L     S      DAUGHTER.  22S 

Whntever  Mr.  "Wentwortli's  tliouglits  were,  that  \Yas  not  a 
tiioraeiit  f  jr  confiding  thein  to  his  mother ;  jat  it  might  have 
been  a  relief  to  him,  and  he  evidently  felt  so,  for  his  counte- 
nance assumed  for  an  instant  an  expression  of  openness  and  con- 
fidence ;  but  Mrs.  Wentwortli's  tone,  as  she  repeated  to  herself, 
"  London  !  what  a  strange  notion  !''  threw  him  back  upon  him- 
self, and  he  replied  shortly,  "  I  have  business  there." 

His  mother  did  not  press  the  inquiry  beyond  the  observation, 
that  it  was  a  very  sudden  and  incomprehensible  idea,  and  took 
no  n^ice  of  the  suggestion  respecting  Eleanor,  till  it  was  made  a 
second  time.  "  She  could  not  tell ;  sKe  could  not  decide  •"  was 
all  she  would  say  upon  the  subject.  '  Eleanor  would  probably 
return  almost  immediately." 

"  But  I  am  thinking  of  going  immediately,"  persisted  Charles  ; 
"  our  plans  will  just  suit." 

"  We  must  first  know  what  Eleanor's  are,"  continued  his 
mother.  "  She  savs  that  she  has  been  induced  to  remain  at 
Seuilhurst  to  keep  Lady  Blanche's  birthday.  She  hopes  I  shall 
not  be  angry.  Poor  child !  she  need  not  be  afraid  of  that ; 
vexed  I  might  be,  but  not  angry.  In  this  case  there  seems  to 
have  been  a  train  of  events  almost  forcing  her  to  do  as  she  has 
done.     Her  visit  to  Senilhurst  at  the  very  first  was  unforeseen." 

"  I  should  be  thankful,  my  dear  mother,  if  you  would  make 
the  same  excuses  for  your  son  that  you  do  for  your  daughter," 
said  Charles,  in  a  tone  of  pique. 

"■^  Mrs.  Wentworth  softened  instantly  in  manner,  though  she 
sighed  as  she  replied,  "  if  I  could  see  the  same  reasons  for 
excuse,  my  dear  Charles,  you  would  not  be  more  thankful  for  it 
than  I  should  be." 

"  And  are  there  not  the  same  reasons  ?"  exclaimed  Mr.  Went- 
worth  impetuously.  "  Is  Eleanor  to  go  where  she  likes,  even 
to  the  very  place  which  you  profess  to  dread  for  her,  and  must 
I  not  even  remain  for  an  hour  at  a  dinner  party  beyond  the 
ti:ne  fixed  ?" 

The  case  was  too  glaring  not  to  strike  Mrs.  Wentwortli's 
sense  of  justice,  and  she  said  instantly,  in  a  tone  of  apolog}'. 
"  I  was  vexed  then  without  cause — at  least  without  sufficient 
cause.  I  am 'sorry  for  it;  but  if  you  knew,  oh,  Charles!"  and 
tears  started  to  her  eyes  ;  "those  little  things — they  indicate  so 
much  to  ray  mind.  If  you  cannot  keep  to  engagements  and 
rules  in  your  daily  life,  how  will  you  ever  submit  to  them  in 
serious  matters  ?  '  How  can  you  be  fitted  for  the  self-denial 
n  qui  red  of  a  clergyman  ?" 


224  THE    E  mil's    daughter. 

"  Perhaps  I  am  not  fitted  for  it,"  began  Mr.  Wentwortli,  ijul 
liis  mother's  distressed  look  stopped  him,  and  in  a  milder  tone 
he  added,  "  When  I  am  talking  to  you,  I  always  fe«ir  that  I  am 
not.*' 

"  Fear  would  be  your  safety,"  said  Mrs.  Wentworth. 

"Then  I  am  safe  beyond  the  possibihty  of  danger,"  exclaimed 
Charles  eagerly.  The  same  expression  of  openness  passed  over 
his  features  as  once  before,  but  again  his  mother  spoke,  and  the 
momentary  courage  vanished.  This  time,  however,  she  was 
not  chilling. 

"  You  are  safe,  I  hope  and  trust,"  she  'eplied  very  earnestly, 
"because  you  know  your  faults,  and  have  striven  against  them  ; 
but  for  that  your  father  and  I  could  never  consent  to  your 
ordination.  And  if  I  am  hard  upon  you,  Charles,  it  is  only 
from  my  love ;  my  longing  to  see  you  what  a  clergyman  ought 
to  be,  what  your  father  is." 

"Yes;  J  know  it,  my  dear  mother.  I  am  quite  aware  of  it. 
I  wish  you  would  not  apologize." 

"  I  always  own  when  I  am  Avrong,"  said  Mrs.  Wentworth, 
lie  drew  near  to  wish  her  a  good  night,  and  she  looked  at  him 
with  a  mother's  proud  fondness.  "  A  few  weeks  more  and  you 
will  be  a  clergyman.  Then  the  greatest  wish  of  my  heart  will 
be  granted." 

"  Always  supposing  the  fitness,"  said  Charles,  almost  moodily. 
He  sighed  very  heavily ;  his  mother  thought  for  an  instant 
that  something  was  weighing  upon  his  mind,  that  he  had  a 
secret  which  he  wished  to  tell ;  yet  he  only  recurred  to  the 
often-repeated  question,  "  How  would  she  feel  if  he  were  to 
give  up  the  idea  ?"  Mrs.  Wentworth's  heart  was  too  full  to 
answer,  but  her  silence  was  sufficient.  She  was  a  person  of  few 
interests,  few  wishes ;  but  those  she  had  were  intense.  It 
would  break  her  lieait  if  he  were  to  disappoint  her. 


CHAPTER  XXX VII. 

There  are  some  fortunate  individuals — fortunate  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world — whose  success  in  all  they  undertake  is  proverbial. 
Lady  Cha.'lton  was  one  of  these.  Whether  it  was  from  tact 
and  cleverness,  or  real  unselfishness  and  kindness,  she  almc>st 
universally  carried  her  point.  Such  persons  insensibly  become 
iospotic.       Their    irritation    when    thwarted   is    naturally    in 


THE    earl's     daughter.  225 

accordance  with  their  certainty  of  nctoiy.     But,  happily    for 
Eleanor    Wentworth's  comfort,  there  were   two  considerations 
which  neutralized  in  a  degree,  in    Lady  Charlton's  mind,  the 
foeliniTS  excited    by   Sir  Hugh's    announcement   that  he   had 
insisted   upon    Miss    Wentworth's    remaining    to    keep    Liniy 
Blanche's   birthday.     One  was  the  increase  of  gaiety   aj   the 
society  at  Senilhurst  which  her  presence  caused ;  and  tht  othei 
w:i.s  the  ho^  of  inducing  Mr.  Johnstone  in  consequence  to  come 
to  Senilhurst  again,  and  be  the  lion  of  a  grave  dinner  party 
which  was  shortly  in  contemplation.     It  was  a  peculiar  faculty 
in  Lady  Charlton,  that  of  seizing  upon  the  advantageous  points 
of  every  incident,  however  apparently  untoward.     The  loss  of 
half  her  fortune,  or  the  illness  of  her  dearest  friend,  might  have 
atiected  her  to  despair  for  the  moment ;  but  she  would  infallibly 
have  extracted  satisfaction  from  them  the  next  minute.     Either 
she  would  be  an  object  of  universal  sympathy ;  or  her  friend,  if 
she  died,  would  leave  her  a  valuable  legacy  ;  or — no  matter 
what — there  was  always  something  to  be  gained.     Not  that 
this  "  something "  mollified    the   first  burst  of  resentment  or 
annoyance.     Lady  Charlton  was  thoroughly  cross  with  Eleanor 
for  half  a  day,  and  with  Sir   Hugh  for  several  days ;  but  the 
considerations  before-mentioned  had  the   effect  of  supporting 
her  in  the  endeavour  to  hide  what  was  displeasing  to  her  from 
her  guests,  and   in  making  her  to  all  appearance  the  same 
kind-hearted,  bright,  charming  person,  which  she  was  generally 
allowed  to  he. 

As  for  what  took  place  behind  the  scenes,  in  more  private 
domestic  intercourse,  or  in  that  still  greater  privacy — the  sanc- 
tuary of  the  heart — it  was  not  the  business  of  any  of  the  visitors 
at  Senilhurst  to  inquire. 

x\nd  so  the  world  went  on — cheerfully  in  the  morning,  busily 
in  the  afternoon,  and  merrily  at  night ;  and  Mrs.  Cuthbert 
Grey  worked  woi-sted-work,  and  moved  gracefully,  and  spoke 
soflfv  ;  and  Miss  Grey  finished  the  "getting  up"  of  the  political 
jiamphlet,  and  was  rewarded  by  hearing  that  Lord  Erlsmero 
thought  her  a  ver}'-  sensible  person  ;  and  Miss  Caroline  Grey 
laughed  at  nothing,  and  exercised  her  fingers  violently  on  the 
piano ;  and  Maude,  and  Adelaide,  and  Eleanor,  did  just  what 
every  one  else  was  doing,  and  Blanche — 

"  Why  is  not  Blanche  at  breakfast?"  asked  Lady  Chailton 
of  Maude,  when  they  met  one  morning  about  t^n  days  after 
Eleanor's  fii-st  arrival.     Eleanor  w■^s  sitting  next  to  Maude  :  she 


22G  THE     earl's    daughter. 

liad  an  impulse  to  answer,  but  she  would  not,  because  hadj 
Cliavlton  had  not  chosen  to  address  herself  to  her. 

"  Blanche's  thi-oat  is  uncomfortable  this  morning,  I  think,'' 
replied  Maude.  "  Her  maid  told  me  that  was  the  reasou  she 
was  not  getting  up  :  she  had  a  bad  night." 

"  Her  throat !"  repeated  Lady  Charlton.  "  I  never  heard  of 
it.     What  is  the  matter  «" 

"  Somers  will  see  her  to-day,"  said  Lord  Rutherford.  "  I  have 
sent  to  him." 

Lady  Charlton  looked  from  one  to  the  other  in  displeased 
surj)rise. 

"  Lady  Blanche  has  not  seemed  quite  well  for  the  last  week," 
observed  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey. 

"  A  cold ;  only  a  cold,"  said  Lord  Rutherford,  quickly- 
"  Yon  know  she  has  often  a  sore  throat,"  he  added,  turning  to 
Lady  Charlton. 

Lady  Charlton  did  not  know  it;  she  was  not  aware  that  any- 
thing was  amiss  ;  it  made  her  extremely  uncoinfortable  ;  in  fact, 
if  she  might  be  excused,  it  would  make  her  happier  to  go  at 
once  and  see  how  Blanche  really  was — and  she  lei't  the  room. 

"Colds  are  awkward  things,"  said  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey  to  Lord 
Erlsraere,  Avho  was  sitting  next  her ;  "  and  Lady  Blanche  looks  so 
delicate." 

She  did  not  intend  Lord  Rutherford  to  hear,  but  he  did  hear, 
and  remarked,  in  answer,  in  a  tone  of^what  for  him  was — 
great  irritation,  that  people  who  looked  delicate  were  very  often 
not  at  all  so.  He  was  happy  to  say  that  Blanche  had  never 
known  a  day's  serious  illness  since  her  birth. 

Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey  smiled  with  polite  incredulity,  and  hoped 
it  might  be  very  long  before  the  spell  of  such  good  health  was 
broken. 

Lord  Rutherford  did  not  thank  her ;  he  only  rang  the  bell 
hastily,  to  inquire  whether  the  man  was  gone  to  Cobham  with 
the  note  for  Mr.  Somers. 

Maude  had  been  sitting  silent  for  some  time,  seemingly  with- 
out paying  any  attention  to  what  was  passing  ;  but,  upon 
hearing  that  Mr.  Somers'  note  was  not  gone — only  going,  when 
some  John,  or  Joseph,  or  Stephen  was  ready,  she  turned  round 
quickly,  and  said,  "  Let  them  take  my  pony  and  set  off 
directly  ; — directly,"  she  repeated,  as  the  servant  hesitated,  in 
surprise,  apparently,  at  an  unusual  order.  ''I  shall  not  ride 
to-day." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Lord  Rutherford,  from  the   opposite  side 


THE     EARLS      DAUGHTER, 


of  the  table.  He  pushed  aside  his  plate,  leaving  his  breakfosl 
half  untouched,  and  went  to  the  window  ;  and,  after  a  few 
minutes'  consideration,  said,  laying  his  hand  upon  the  bell  a 
second  time,  "  I  shall  go  myself — these  people  are  so  stuitid. 
If  Mr.  Somers  is  not  at  home,  the  note  will  be  lost." 

Tl.e  words  were  spoken  to  Maude  ;  she  did  not  try  to  dissuade 
him  ;  only  she  obs-irved  that  it  might  be  as  well  to  wait  and 
hear  what  hty-  mother  thought  about  Blanche. 

Lord  Rutherford  sat  down  again,  .ind  conversation  continued 
around  him,  but  there  was  no  life  in  it.  Eleanor  asked  Maude 
a  few  questions  about  Blanche  ;  but  Maude  would  not  say  a 
word  more  than  was  necessary,  and  even  then  answered  in  a 
short,  disagreeable  way,  which  was  no  incentive  to  pursue  the 
subject. 

Lady  Charlton  returned,  after  rather  a  long  absence.  Lord 
liutherford  did  not  enquire  how  Blanche  was,  but  she  said  of 
her  own  accord,  that  there  was  not  much  the  matter — a  cold, 
caught  from  imprudence  :  all  young  people's  colds  originated  in 
the  same  way.  There  was  no  inducing  them  to  guard  against 
the  weather.  Blanche  had  got  w'et  about  ten  days  or  a  fort- 
night before,  and  had  not  taken  proper  care  of  hei'self. 

"  It  was  the  day  we  met  at  the  lodge,"  said  Maude  :  "  and 
she  was  not  well,  if  you  remember,  that  evening." 

'*  And  she  has  not  been  looking  well  since,"  again  repeated 
Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey,  in  a  pleasant,  cheerful  voice,  as  if  sh^  was 
making  thejnost  agreeable  remark  possible. 

Lord  Rutherford  said  he  did  not  see  why  people  should  trou- 
ble themselves  about  the  origin  of  colds.  Blanche  had  one — 
that  was  sufficient  ;  she  must  get  rid  of  it.  Were  there  any 
commands  for  Cobham  ?  he  was  going  there  immediately. 

"  For  Mr.  Somers  ?"  inquired  Lady  Charlton. 

"  Yes,  partly  ;  that  is,  I  shall  call  just  to  see  if  he  is  at  homo. 
It  is  satisfactory  to  put  things  into  a  medical  man's  hands  at  once, 
if  only  one's  linger  aches.     It  saves  one  from  responsibility." 

"  And  if  anything  does  go  seriously  amiss  afterwards," 
remarked  Mi's.  Cuthbert  Grey,  "  one  is  freed  from  self-reproach." 

Lord  Rutherford  rose,  and  saying,  he  should  see  Blanche 
before  he  set  oft',  left  the  breakftist-table. 

"  So  strange  it  is  !"  observed  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey  to  Lord 
Krlsmere,  lingering  for  a  t6te-a-t6te,  when  every  one  else  w;is 
gone  :  "  so  curious  !  almost  amusing  !  to  watch  ])eople  tryin;» 
to  deceive  themselves  !  Lord  Rutherfoid  thinks  he  is  no( 
•inxious  ;  [xior  man  !" 


228  THE    earl's    daughter. 

Lord  Erlsmere  said,  "  Poor  man !"  also  ;  but  with  a  very 
different  feeling  from  Mrs.  Cutlibert  Grey. 

]>lanche  apj)eared  at  tlie  luncheon-table,  looking  so  like  her 
usual  self,  so  bright  and  simple  and  happy,  that  even  Mrs. 
Cutlibert  Grey  did  not  see  any  cause  for  pity.  Lord  Rutherford 
took  real  pains  to  announce  Mr.  Somers'  opinion.  Lady  Blanche 
was  not  well,  certainly,  she  was  delicate,  and  required  care  ;  she 
had  been  rather  imprudent,  and  must  make  up  her  mind  not 
to  be  out  late,  and  not  to  sit  up  at  night  ;  she  must  take 
strengthening  things  ;  "in  short,  she  is  to  be  treated  as  an 
invalid  for  the  present,  to  keep  her  quiet,"  he  added  with  a 
smile,  and  with  this  dictum  all  were  satisfied,  and  all  went  their 
own  way, 

Blanche  went  hers  ;  it  was  to  her  own  room  :  she  did  not 
feel  as  others  thought  she  felt ;  yet  it  was  not  easy  to  complain, 
when  there  was  little  definite  to  complain  of,  beyond  a  sore 
throat,  which  any  person  might  have,  and  a  sense  of  languor 
and  weakness  which  might  be  more  indolence  than  anything 
else.  She  was  almost  vexed  at  becoming  more  comfortable,  as 
she  sat  writing  to  Mrs.  Howard,  and  began  to  think  herself 
fanciful.  The  quietness  and  solitude  were  very  pleasant,  and 
she  wrote  and  read  and  worked,  till  it  grew  dark,  and  then, 
tired  with  exertion,  sat  by  the  cheerful  fire  thinking  till  she  fell 
asleep.  How  long  she  slept  she  did  not  know,  but  she  was 
awakened  suddenly  by  pain — that  sharp  indescribable  pang 
which  had  once  before  so  startled  her  ;  the  involuntary  cry 
which  she  uttered  was  answered  by  a  kiss  from  her  father,  lie 
was  bending  over  her  with  a  fece  of  the  fondest  anxiety. 

"  My  dearest  child,  you  frightened  me,"  he  said  ;  "  but  you 
are  sitting  uneasily  :  that  is  the  matter,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes,  I  hope  so  ;  1  suppose  it  may  be,"  said  Blanche  ;  but 
^he  was  very  pale,  for  the  pain  continued,  though  not  so 
..Jtensely.  Lord  Rutherford  laid  her  on  the  sofa,  and  placed  the 
jillows  for  her  to  rest  ;  she  smiled  cheerfully  then,  and  told  hiiii 
-lie  Avas  better.  It  was  only  pain  for  the  moment,  which  she 
ftad  felt  before,  and,  no  doubt,  it  would  soon  be  gone.  He  was 
not  satisfied,  but  scarcely  choosing  to  acknowledge  his  uneasiness 
to  himself,  he  said,  with  an  endeavour  to  divert  his  thoughts, 
"  I  was  coming  to  tell  you  about  my  afternoon's  business.  I 
have  been  to  the  lodge,  and  inquired  after  your  little  friend  ; 
and  there  I  met  Lord  Erlsmere,  returning  from  a  short  ride 
ivith  one  of  the  Miss  Greys  ;  so  I  persuaded  them  to  join  me 
FJid  go  as  far  as  Cobiiam,  where  I  made  Miss  Grey  choose  some 


T  ri  E      EAUL'S      D  AUG  II  TEH.  229 

books  aiul  to\'s,  whicli  are  to  be  sent  home  for  you  to  sec  '  and 
to-morrow  we  will  go  and  give  them." 

Bhmche  held  out  her  hand  to  him,  and  said,  "  Thank  you  " 
very  earnestly  ;  but  her  voice  was  faint. 

"Your  hand  is  so  hot,  my  child — quite  feverish,"  said  the 
earl.     "  I  wish  Somers  had  sent  the  medicine  he  talked  of." 

lie  was  going  to  ring  and  inquire,  but  Blanche  would  nol 
allow  him.  ^t  was  pleasant,  she  said,  to  have  him  for  half  au 
hour  to  herself,  and  she  could  inquire  about  the  medicine  after- 
wards^ for,  if  he  thought  it  would  not  look  fanciful,  she  would 
rather  not  go  down  stairs  that  evening. 

Lord  Rutherford  acquiesced  ;  he  sat  down  by  the  sofa  again, 
and  went  on  talking  to  her  about  the  little  boy.  He  seemed  to 
know  everything  about  him — how  he  had  slept,  and  what  he 
had  eaten — and  as  Blanche,  from  time  to  time,  smiled,  and  was 
pleased  and  interested,  he  became  quite  eager,  almost  impatient 
in  his  wish  to  show  her  what  he  had  bought.  "  I  shall  come 
to  you  again,  after  dinner,"  he  said,  when  the  dressing-bell 
rung ;  "  that  is,  if  3-ou  are  not  gone  to-bed ;  but  you  must  not 
sit  up  late.  If  you  do  not  nurse  your  cold  now,  you  will  not 
be  fit  for  your  gay  birthday." 

Blanche  had  no  doubt  that  she  should  be  quite  well  the  next 
day — her  colds  were  never  of  much  consequence ;  and  Lord 
Rutherford  agreed  with  her,  and  went  away  happy,  as  he  tried 
to  believe ;  but  the  world  was  not  quite  so  sunshiny  as  it  had 
lately  been.-  ]*erhaps  it  was  tliat  he  missed  Blanche  in  the 
drawing-room  and  at  the  dinner-table. 


CnABTER  XXXVIIL 

"  So  we  are  not  to  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Blanche  this 
evening,"  said  Sir  Hugh  to  Lord  Rutherford,  when,  alter  a  good 
deal  of  exertion  and  endurance  on  the  part  of  Pear.wn,  he  had' 
been  moved  from  the  drawing-room  and  settled  at  the  dinner- 
table.  "  A  great  loss,  that !  We  shall  all  feel  it.  But  we  must 
hope  ;  if  she  will  take  care  of  herself  now,  we  may  anticijiate 
the  gratification  of  welcoming  her  in  full  beauty  on  her 
birthday." 

"  That  vdll  be,  when  ?"  asked  Lord  Erlsmere.  A  laugh  went 
round  the  table.  Lord  Erlsmere  must  certainly  have  been 
living  in   the   clouds ;   or,  as   Maude    Mhisjiored   to   her    next 


2.']0  THE    earl's    daughter. 

ii('ii;-hl)OTir,  in  that  Avliicli  is  the  nearest  approacli  to  tliem — tlie 
lluuse  of  Coinmons — not  to  have  learnt  that  the  next  Tuesday 
was  to  be  a  gala  day. 

"  Oh  !"  Lord  Erlsmere  was  guilty  of  a  slight  blush — for  he 
undoubtedly  had  not  been  paying  that  full  attention  to  the 
affairs  of  this  lower  earth,  or,  at  least,  to  the  affairs  of  Senil- 
hurst,  which  might  have  been  expected  from  a  person  suj^posed, 
of  course,  to  be  either  destined  for  Lady  Blanche  or  desperately 
in  love  with  Miss  Grey.  "  Wednesday  is  the  day — the  day  par 
excellence,"  said  Sir  Hugh,  graciously.  "  Lord  Kutherford  has 
done  us  great  honour  in  allowing  us  to  keep  it  here ;  and  the 
fact  reminds  me — " 

"  Sir  Hugh,"  said  Lady  Charlton,  in  a  tone  which  was  quite 
melodious  from  its  gentleness ;  "  you  are  overlooking  your 
neighbour.  Miss  Caroline  Grey  has  eaten  nothing."  Sir  Hugh 
was  all  attention  in  an  instant. 

"  Wednesday,  is  it  ?"  said  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey  to  Lady 
Charlton,  with  an  air  of  surprise  and  disapjiointment.  "  I  have 
made  a  great  mistake,  I  thought  you  said  Tuesday." 

"  No  ;  Wednesday,  the  20th.  I  am  right,  am  I  not  Maude  ? 
Wednesday,  the  29th,  the  grand  day,"  exclaimed  Sir  Hugh, 
returning  to  the  subject  with  renewed  vigour  ;  "  and  I  was 
about  to  observe — I  was  about  to  remind  Lord  Rutherford — " 
The  earl  was  seized  with  a  sudden  interest  in  an  observation 
made  by  Eleanor  Wentworth,  who  was  sitting  by  him.  Sir 
Hugh  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  but  the  tide  of  conver- 
sation had  received  an  impulse  which  it  was  not  easy  to  avert, 

Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey's  next  remark  was  made  in  an  under 
tone  to  Lady  Charlton.  She  was  really  vexed,  she  said,  to  find 
that  Wednesday  was  the  day,  for  she  was  very  much  afraid 
that  some  plans  which  she  had  formed  would  be  incompatible 
with  what  would  otherwise  have  been  a  great  wish.  She  had 
set  her  heart  upon  Adelaide's  returning  with  her,  and  as  she 
must  go  on  the  Wednesday,  she  was  afraid  this  notion  of  the 
birthday  would  interfere. 

"  But  Wednesday  is  the  very  day :  yon  are  not  going  then  ; 
n'e  could  not  let  you  go,"  exclaimed  Lady  Charlton.  "  I  could 
not  entertain  the  idea  for  an  instant." 

Mrs.  Cutlibert  Grey  professed  herself  as  vexed  and  disap- 
pointed as  Lady  Charlton  could  possibly  have  desired ;  but 
again  repeated  that  her  plans  were  so  fixed  they  could  not 
under  any  circumstances  be  altered.  It  was  business,  indeed, 
which  required  her  presence  at  home  on  the  Thursday,  and 


THE    earl's    daughter.  2^1 

business  which  could  not  be  set  aside.  "  But  you  will  perhaps 
spare  Adelaide  to  us  after  the  party,"  she  added.  "  The 
distance  is  not  very  great ;  and  possibly,  if  Mr.  Johnstone  is 
comino'  liere  again,  he  might  bring  her  back  part  of  the  way  ; 
for  you  know  they,  are  near  neighbours  of  ours — only  at  two 
miles'  distance." 

Lady  Charlton  was  not  inclined  to  make  any  such  arrange- 
ment. Slie-'^'as  too  much  provoked  at  losing  the  guest  whom 
she  especially  prized  ou  the  precise  day  of  her  intended  party. 
Her  ^ly  comfort  arose  from  perceiving  that  Mrs.  Cuthbert 
Grey  was  as  much  annoyed  as  herself.  There  was  perfect 
sincerity  in  the  regret  she  expressed  at  the  unfortunate  mistake. 
"  Mamma  may  break  her  heart ;  but  it  is  more  than  I  shall 
do,"  said  Maude,  in  a  low  voice  to  Eleanor.  But  Eleanor  did 
not  answer ;  she  was  looking  across  the  table  at  Adelaide,  who 
was  bending  forward  and  listening  with  a  strange  eagerness  of 
manner  to  her  mother's  decision. 

"  I  hope  I  shall  have  inclination  to  plead  for  me,  as  fiir  as 
you  are  concerned,  Adelaide,"  said  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey  smiling 
at  the  interest  so  unconsciously  shown.  Adelaide  started,  and 
coloured  crimson,  and  answered,  laughingly,  that  she  had  set 
her  heart  upon  it :  but  there  was  no  sign  of  anxiety  given  after 
this,  for,  during  the  remainder  of  the  dinner,  she  kept  up  a 
flighty  conversation  with  Miss  Caroline  Grey,  which  had  the 
eflect  of  chiUing  into  gravity  nearly  every  other  person  at  the 
table. 

The  dinner  was  ended,  and  Eleanor  and  Maude  went  to 
Blanche's  room  together.  Each  wished  the  other  absent. 
They  had  but  one  feeling  in  common — that  which  centred  in 
Blanche.  Maude  took  up  a  book,  as  was  her  wont,  and  Eleanor 
rallied  her  for  being  unsociable ;  but  still  she  read,  or  pretended 
to  do  so  ;  whilst  Eleanor  sat  by,  amusing  Blanche  with  little 
incidents  of  the  day.  She  was  very  quick  and  clever  in  descrip- 
tion ;  and  Maude  was  attracted  by  her  against  her  will,  and 
whilst  holding  a  volume  of  travels  in  her  hand,  could  not  avoid 
adding  an  occasional  remark  or  an  explanation. 

"Come,  M;wide,  resign  yourself,  and  be  agreeable,"  said 
Blanche,  playfully,  as  Maude  turned  towards  the  light,  seemingly 
determined  upon  being  studious ;  "  }  ou  really  cannot  help 
yourself." 

"  No  one  is  agreeable  who  is  told  to  he  so,"  replied  Maude, 
shortly.  "  Besides  you  don't  want  anything  when  Miss  Went- 
worth  is  with  you." 


232  THE    earl's    daughter. 

"  Yes,  I  do ;  I  want  you  for  my  own  pleasure,  and  to  scold 
Eleanor  for  saying  a  good  many  things  she  ought  not." 

"  What  things  ?"  asked  Eleanor  ;  and  Maude  put  down  het 
book,  and  gazed  steadily  on  the  fire. 

"  Lectures  are  for  a  tete-a-tete,"  answered  Blanche  ;  ''  and, 
moreover,  they  are  not  in  my  way." 

"  Thank  you,  for  supposing  them  in  mine,"  observed  Maude  ; 
"  lint  I  am  used  to  it :  it  has  been  my  character  from  a  child  to 
be  fond  of  giving  them — and  I  think  I  am.  Miss  Wentworth 
thinks  so — she  cannot  deny  it." 

Eleanor  did  not  attempt  to  do  so;  she  only  said  that&je  had 
never  had  the  honour  of  receiving  one. 

"  That  may  be  because  she  considers  you  incorrigible," 
ol)served  Blanche.  "  I  always  deem  it  rather  a  favour  to  be 
lectured  by  people  I  care  for ;  it  sjiows  that  they  have  not  quite 
given  one  up." 

"  Miss  Wentworth  is  not  likely  to  profit  by  any  lectures  of 
mine,"  said  Maude. 

Eleanor  tried  to  laugh  at  what  might  be  supposed  the  double 
meaning  of  this  speech ;  but  it  was  an  awkward  attempt,  fn 
she  felt  much  the  coldness,  the  rudeness  indeed,  of  Maude's 
manner. 

Blanche  looked  at  her  cousin  reproachfully.  She  could 
make  allowance  for  Maude's  defect  of  temper,  and  the  faults  of 
a  neglected  education ;  but  this  want  of  courtesy  towards  her 
friend,  and  Lady  Charlton's  guest,  was  almost  more  than  even 
her  gentleness  could  bear. 

"  You  have  no  cause  to  be  angry  with  me,  Blanche,"  said 
Maude,  replying  to  the  look.  "  I  only  say  what  I  mean  ;  I  am 
not  the  person  to  lecture  Miss  Wentworth,  if  she  deserves  a 
lecture : "  the  marked  emphasis  upon  the  ^/',  was  evidently 
intended  to  show  that,  in  Maude's  opinion,  the  lecture  was 
deserved. 

Blanche  was  quit<^  afraid  to  reply.  Eleanor  sat  very  still,  and 
very  stiff,  and  Maude  returned  to  her  book,  having  thoroughly 
succeeded  in  stopping  the  conversation,  if  that  was  her  ob- 
ject. 

A  knock  at  the  door,  at  this  instant,  was  a  seasonable  relief. 
*'  It  must  be  papa,"  said  Blanche,  "  he  promised  he  would  come 
to  sit  with  me  after  dinner."  But  the  knock  was  repeated,  and 
Adelaide  put  her  head  in  at  the  door  and  called  Eleanor  away. 
There  was  nervousness  and  conscious  secrecy  in  Eleanor's  man- 
p.er  as  she  answered,  "  Coming,  in  one   moment;  goto  your 


THE      EARLS      DAUGHTER.  233 

room,  and  I  will  follow  you."  Adelaide  still  stood  at  tbe  doo: 
without  entering ;  and,  after  hoping  that  Blanche  was  better, 
said  aloud,  to  Maude.  "  The  Cuthbert  Greys'  plans  are  settled, 
Maude ;  they  go  back  to  Oakfield  on  AVednesday  night,  after 
the  party  :  hard  work  it  will  be,  but  it  is  quite  settled." 

"  Is  it  ? "  said  Maude,  without  raising  her  eyes  ;  and,  before 
"Blaiche  could  ask  the  meaning  of  the  information,  Adelaide 
beckoned  agliin  to  Eleanor,  and  both  left  the  room. 

Then  Maude  threw  aside  her  book,  and  standing  before 
Blan^e,  whilst  her  eyes  flashed  with  indignation,  exclaimed, 
"  Why  did  you  stop  me  from  saying  what  I  would  haye  said  ? 
Is  it  good  for  Miss  Wentworth,  that  no  one  should  haye  the 
courage  to  tell  her  the  truth,  and  make  her  ashamed  of  the  part 
she  is  playing  ? "  Blanche  was  lying  on  the  sofii,  yery  tired 
and  worried ;  she  had  not  strength  or  inclination  to  enter  upon 
the  subject,  and  Maude's  yehemence  chilled  her,  it  seemed  so 
misplaced.  "  I  thought  you  had  more  in  you,  Blanche,"  con- 
tinued Maude  ;  ''  more  courage  and  energy." 

Tears  were  in  Blanche's  eyes  as  much  from  fatigue  as  yexa- 
tion.  "  I  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about,  Maude,"  she 
answered;  "  if  is  all  such  a  mystery.  Perhaps  you  will  leave 
it  till  another  time,  for  I  don't  feel  very  well  to-night." 

Maude  became  more  gentle,  but  she  did  not  seem  willing  to 
defer  what  she  had  to  say,  and  continued,  "  It  may  be  very 
cruel,  Blanche,  to  put  you  up  to  the  ways  of  the  world.  You 
are  walking  through  it  blindfold,  happily  for  you ;  happily  for 
all  who  can  do  so.  But  remember  you  have  been  warned  ;  and 
if  you  will  still  allow  yourself  to  be  infatuated  by  Miss  Went- 
worth, the  fault  is  not  mine.  Yet  I  should  have  thought,"  she 
added,  "  that  anything  like  manoeuvring  would  have  been 
foreign  to  your  nature." 

Blanche  was  completely  roused  for  the  moment.  "  Manoeuv- 
ring !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Maude,  this  is  only  a  repetition  of 
the  charge  you  made  against  Eleanor  before.  I  thought  I  had 
told  you  that  I  would  not  bear  to  hear  it  brought  forward  wilh- 
.>ut  proof." 

"  And  you  iiave  not  seen  any  proof,  then,  during  the  fortnight 
you  have  been  together,"  said  Maude  sarcjistically.  "  Well ;  I 
suppose  it  is  possible — wilful  blindness  is  greater  than  any 
other.  But,  if  you  have  not,  I  can  assure  you  that  I  have 
Every  look  and  word  of  Miss  Wentworth's  convinces  me  that 
she  has  a  double-meaning  in  her  visit;  that  she  is  manceuvriiig 
(br  lier  brother  and  Adelaide :    and  what  is  more  that  shy 


231  THE      EARL     S      DAUGHTER. 

wisiies  to  draw  you  into  her  schemes.  I  could  not  tell  you  all 
the  facts  from  which  I  draw  my  conclusions.  Some  things  I 
see,  some  I  hear.  It  may  be  all  folly  now,  but  it  may  be  seri- 
ous by-and-by ;  and  you,  Blanche,  true  and  simple  though  you 
are- — so  true  and  so  sim])le,  that  I  would  give  all  I  am  worth  to 
resemble  you — may  be  led  to  join  with  them  :  they  will  reckon 
upon  your  good  nature." 

"  If  they  do,"  began  Blanche  indignantly — but  she  stop[>ed, 
and  added,  "  no,  I  will  not,  I  cannot  believe  it." 

"  Do  believe,  do  think,"  said  Maude,  persuasively.  "Believe 
whatever  may  save  you  from  being  like  them,  from  being  any- 
thing but  what  you  are." 

"  You  make  me  very  unhappy,"  replied  Blanche  ;  "  I  wish  I 
knew  your  object.  Wh}',  if  you  suspect  anything  amiss,  do 
you  not  go  to  your  mother,  instead  of  speaking  mj'steriously 
to  me  ?" 

"  And  have  you,  then,  really  lived  so  long  with  us  without 
understanding  us  ?"  exclaimed  Maude.  "  Can  you  be  childish 
enough  to  suppose  that  I  should  go  and  make  vague  complaints, 
and  aggravate  my  mother's  temper,  in  the  hope  of  inducing 
Adelaide  to  behave  as  a  woman  of  sense,  instead  of  an  idiot  ? 
My  dear  Blanche,  there  is  not  in  the  house,  at  this  moment,  a 
single  individual — I  say  it  calmly  and  advisedly  ; — no,  there  is 
not  one,  yourself  excepted,  whom  I  would  trust  to  act  with  com- 
mon prudence  as  for  as  Adelaide  i^^  concerned.     They  are  all — " 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  hear  what  they  are,"  said  Blanche  firmly ; 
"  and  I  would  rather  that  you  should  not  make  me  the  excep- 
tion. It  is  quite  impossible  that  any  one  of  my  age,  and  with 
my  ignorance  of  the  world — which  you  know,  Maude,  you  are 
always  reminding  me  of — should  know  how  to  act  or  advise  in 
such  a  case." 

"No,"  said  Maude,  more  quietly;  "it  is  not  impossible. 
You  have  influence  over  Miss  Wentworth  ;  and  you  have  also 
the  one  qualification — the  basis  of  all  good  judgment — you  are 
true  and  consistent." 

"  I  would  try  to  be  so,"  was  Blanche's  reply. 

Maude  stood  in  silence  for  a  few  instants,  her  large  cold  grey 
eyes  riveted  upon  the  lovely  features  of  her  young  cousin, 
which  now  bore  the  expression  of  pain,  both  of  body  and  mind. 

"  To-morrow,"  said  Blanche,  "  we  will  talk  more  of  this." 
Maude  did  not  notice  the  words ;  a  cloud  of  thought  seenu'd 
passing  over  her.  "To-morrow,"  repeated  Blanche;  and 
Maude  started,  like  one  awakened  from  a  dream. 


THE    earl's    daughter  235 

"  Tu-niorrow  did  you  say  ?  Yes,  if  you  will ;  but,  oh 
Blanche  !  in  pity  do  not  let  me  be  deceived  in  yo«."  The 
tone  in  which  she  spoke  was  strangely  dift'erent  from  the  chilling 
bitterness  of  her  former  voice. 

Blanche  raised  her  eyes  to  Lcr,  and  asked,  "  ^Yhy  are  you 
afraid  for  me  ?" 

Maude  did  not  answer  the  question.  She  knelt  down  beside 
her,  and  sai<f,  "  I  have  talked  too  long.  Can  I  help  you  in  any 
way  before  you  go  to  bed  ?" 

"  'Pliank  you,  no ;  I  shall  not  go  to  bed  yet.  I  could  not 
sleep." 

"  You  will  lie  here  and  think ;  that  will  be  very  bad  for 
you,"  said  Maude. 

"  How  can  I  help  it  ?  to  be  suspicious  and  distrustful !  to 
doubt  Eleanor !  Maude,  you  should  not  put  such  thoughts 
into  my  head." 

"  It  was  necessary,"  replied  Maude.  "  But  drive  them  from 
you,  at  least  to-night.  Let  me  read,  and  make  you  think  of 
other  things."  She  took  from  the  table  the  same  volume  of 
travels  which  she  had  been  looking  at  before  the  conversation 
began. 

Blanche  smiled,  and  thanked  her ;  but  added,  "  I  had  better 
read  to  myself." 

"  Because  you  are  afraid  of  troubling  me ;  but  I  should  like 
it.  Shall  it  be  this  ?"  and  she  held  out  the  book.  Blanche 
hesitated.  "  You  would  prefer  something  else,  only  tell  me 
what." 

"I  am  too  tired  and  too  vexed  for  common  reading,"  rejilied 
Blanche.  "  You  had  better  say  good  night,  and  ask  papa  to 
come  to  me." 

Maude  turned  round  almost  sharply,  and  said,  "If  I  were 
any  one  else  you  would  like  me  to  read  the  Bible." 

"  I  should  like  you  to  read  it,  very  much,  I  cannot  say  how 
n^.uch,  if  I  thought  you  would  like  it,"  said  Blanche. 

Maude  only  replied  by  putting  a  Bible  into  her  cousin's 
hands.  Blanche  opened  it,  and  pointed  to  one  of  the  conclud- 
ing chapters  of  St.  John's  Gospel.  It  was  read  without  hesita- 
tiun,  and  ended  without  comment,  and  Maude  went  away. 


J3()  T  H  15      earl's      daughter. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 


Blanche  could  not  sleep,  as  she  had  feared  would  be  the 
^*ase.  Even  the  words  of  unspeakable  comfort,  of  unutteraljle 
love,  that  had  soothed  her  when  read  by  Maude,  foiled  to  chase 
the  wearyino;  thoughts,  which  partly  from  feverishness,  and 
partly  from  the  evening's  conversation,  harassed  her  mind.  If 
she  fell  asleep,  it  was  only  to  mingle  in  confused  scenes  of  dis- 
tress with  Adelaide  and  Eleanor  and  her  aunt ;  or  to  imagine 
herself  guilty  of  some  unknown  offence,  or  involved  with  others 
in  seme  great  punishment.  She  awoke  continually,  and  still 
tJie  distant  sound  of  voices  in  the  drawing-room  below,  oi  the 
notes  of  the  piano  or  the  harp,  reminded  her  that  she  was  the 
only  person  who  had  as  yet  retired  to  rest.  There  came  at  List 
a  pause,  as  the  party  was  breaking  up,  and  Blanche  in  that 
interval  fell  asleep  again,  and  when  she  again  unclosed  her 
eyes,  it  seemed  as  if  she  had  slept  a  long  time.  She  sat  up  to 
look  at  her  watch.  It  was  just  eleven.  She  had  not  then  slept 
so  very  long,  and  on  listening  she  could  still  hear  a  few  move- 
ments in  the  house,  and  murmuring  voices  near  ;  yes,  very 
near,  in  the  gallery  by  her  dressing-room,  the  door  into  which 
was  partly  open.  They  were  very  low,  and  Blanche  could  not 
at  first  distinguish  them;  but  after  the  lapse  of  a  few  minutes, 
a  push,  it  seemed  an  angry  one,  was  given  to  the  dressing-room 
door,  and  Adelaide  and  Eleanor,  both  speaking  together, 
entered.  Blanche  was  startled  for  an  instant,  and  then,  sup- 
posing they  were  wishing  to  see  if  she  was  asleep,  laid  her  head 
again  on  her  pillow,  expecting  them  to  come  into  the  bed-room  ; 
but  there  was  a  delay. 

"  Remember,  Adelaide,"  she  heard  Eleanor  say  eagerly,  "  you 
may  carry  your  amusement  a  little  too  far.  Mrs.  Cuthbert 
Grey  will  never  countenance  any  folly." 

Adelaide  laughed  lightly,  and  rejjlied,  "  We  shall  not  do  her 
the  honour  of  asking  for  her  countenance  ;  besides,  if  you  are 
afraid,  you  know  the  alternative."  Silence  followed  for  some 
seconds,  when  it  was  again  broken  by  Adelaide,  "You  need  not 
trouble  yourself  to-night,"  she  said.  "  Talk  to  her  to-morrow 
quietly,  and  bring  her  round  ;  and  I  have  given  my  woid  of 
Honour,  so  has  Charles.     Your  difficulty  will  be  at  an  end." 

"  Will  it  ?"  asked  Eleanor,  thoughtfully. 

"  Yes  ;  do  you  doubt  us  ?" 

"  Charles  is  so  rash ;  so  fciiifully  rasli,"  said  Eleanor.  *'  lie 
^'ill  not  hear  of  delay." 


THE     eaul's    dauguteu,  237 

Vty  this  tinio  Blanche  had  become  aware  that  what  was  said 
was  not  intended  for  her  ears.  She  coughed  to  give  the  idea 
that  she  was  awake,  and  repeated  Eleanor's  name  ;  but,  in  the 
eagerness  of  conversation,  she  was  not  heard,  and  she  could 
not  help  catching  Adelaide's  repl}^  "  We  are  both  sick  of 
delay ;  and  if  you  will  not  do  any  thing  for  us,  you  must  ex- 
pect us  to  do  something  for  ourselves." 

There  wt^  a  movement  as  if  Adelaide  was  going.  It  seemed 
that  Eleanor  detained  her,  for  in  a  voice  of  anxious  entreaty  she 
said,''"  Adelaide,  have  you  no  pity  for  my  mother  ?  If  you 
encourage  him  to  any  rash  step,  it  will  kill  lier ;  it  will  be  sad 
enough  as  it  is,"  she  added,  in  a  lower  tone. 

Adelaide  only  burst  from  her,  closed  the  dressing-rcom  door 
hastily,  and  Eleanor  was  left  alone. 

All  was  very  still  then :  Blanche  could  hear  the  beating  of 
her  own  heart  as  she  waited  for  Eleanor's  coming.  She  could 
have  thought  that  nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour  had  gone  bv 
before  there  was  the  very  gentle  tap  and  the  stealthy  footstep,  as 
of  one  who  was  afraid  of  intruding ; — so  many  thoughts  and 
such  painful  misgivings  were  crowded  into  a  few  moments. 
What  could  be  the  meaning  of  all  she  had  heard  ?  Why  did 
Eleanor  come  to  her  at  all  ?  Was  it  only  kindness,  or  had  she 
some  secret,  something  to  ask  or  to  tell  ?  and  could  it  really  be 
wrong,  could  there  really  be  a  foundation  for  Maude's  warnings  ? 
could  Eleanor, — but  she  had  no  more  time  for  such  question- 
ings, Eleanor  stood  by  her  bedside,  shading  the  candle  which 
she  held  in  her  hand,  so  that  the  light  scarcely  fell  upon  her 
features,  whilst  she  asked  hurriedly,  whether  Blanche  had  been 
asleep,  and  if  she  was  feeling  at  all  better.  The  inquiries  were 
rjade  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  Blanche  answered  them  in  the 
same  indifferent  manner.  She  could  think  of  nothing  but 
of  what  might  be  still  to  come. 

"  Then  I  can  do  nothing  for  you,  dear,"  said  Eleanor,  stoop- 
ing down  to  kiss  Blanche.  The  light  fell  upon  her  face  as  she 
raised  herself:  Blanche  had  nev<ir  seen  her  look  so  wretched.  She 
kept  her  hand,  longing  to  speak,  but  not  knowing  how  to  begin. 

"  Good  night,"  said  Eleanor,  trying  to  withdraw  hei-self. 

"  Good  night,"  repeated  Blanche.  A  pang  of  conscience 
followed  the  words,  as  if  she  was  deceiving  Eleanor,  and  she 
added,  "  Must  you  go  ?" 

*'  I  think  I  must.     Do  you  know  liow  late  it  is  ?" 

"  After  eleven  ;  but  can't  you  stny  a  few  minutes  ?"  Eleanoi 
tat  down. 


2.38  THE    earl's    daughter. 

"  It  seems  selfish,  too,"  continued  Blanclie,  affectionately. 
"  You  look  very  fagged.     Had  you  a  pleasant  evening  ?" 

''  Yes,  very  ;"  but  Eleanor  could  not  bring  herself  to  givo 
any  particulars  of  it. 

"  Is  Adelaide  going  to  ^Irs.  Cuthbert  Grey's  ?"  begun 
Blanche,  hoping  to  bring  round  the  conversation  by  degrees ; 
but  contrivance  was  so  opposite  to  her  character,  that  in  the 
pause  which  preceded  the  reply,  she  exclaimed,  "Eleanor,  I 
must  tell  you  one  thing ;  I  could  not  sleep  or  be  happy  if  I  did 
not.  I  heard  what  you  and  Adelaide  said ;  I  could  not  help 
it."  She  expected  a  burst  of  indignation  ;  but  the  stillness  of 
the  hour  was  broken  only  by  a  stifled  sob,  as  Eleanor  leant  her 
head  upon  Blanche's  pillow,  and  cried  bitterly. 

"  I  did  not  understand  it ;  and  I  do  not  wish  to  know  any 
thing,  dearest,"  said  Blanche,  fondly.  "  Only  forgive  me. 
I  know  it  could  not  be  wrong — -just  say  that  it  is  nothing 
wrong,"  she  added,  in  her  simplicity  betraying  the  doubt  which 
pained  her.  Eleanor  put  aside  the  arm  which  was  thrown 
round  her,  and  apparently  ashamed  of  her  weakness  and 
wishing  to  hide  it,  said  as  she  sat  upright,  "  What  did 
you  hear,  Blanche  ? — and  how  did  you  hear  it  ?" 

Blanche  repeated,  as  well  as  she  could  recollect,  the  sub- 
stance of  what  had  passed,  saying  again,  as  she  concluded, 
"  Don't  explain  ;  I  would  rather  you  should  not." 

Eleanor's  lips  became  white  with  agitation.  She  looked 
steadily  at  Blanche  for  an  instant,  and  then  answered,  "  Blanche, 
you  will  trust  me,  I  am  sure.  I  have  trusted  you  from  child- 
hood.    Grant  me  what  I  ask." 

"  If  I  can, — tell  me  only  what  I  am  to  do,"  said  Blanche, 
frightened  by  her  manner. 

"  But,  before  I  tell — now — promise  me." 

Blanche  drew  back.     "  Before !  it  is  impossible." 

"  Not  to  me,  in  whom  you  have  so  much  confidence  1" 
exclaimed  Eleanor,  reproachfully. 

Blanche  could  scarcely  bear  to  realize  her  own  doubt,  and  she 
continueii,  "  It  is  wrong  to  ^^roi^ise  anything  in  ignorance ; 
therefore  I  cannot." 

"  But  ignorance  may  be  your  good,"  said  Eleanor ;  "  it  may 
save  you  from  pain." 

Blanche  looked  at  her  with  sadness  and  surprise ;  then  she 
answered  almost  coldly,  "  A  year  ago,  you  would  not  have 
asked  this.  You  know  I  cannot  consent."  It  was  a  tone  and 
manner  which  it  was  impossible  to  mistake,  for  it  spoke  a  fixed 


THE      EARLS      DAUGHTER.  239 

decision  ;  and  Eleanor  had  long  since  learnt  that  Blanche, 
gentle  and  yielding  though  she  appeared,  possessed  much  of  the 
resolute  spirit  of  her  family. 

"Then,  if  you  will  not,"  she  exclaimed,  "  we  will  leave  the 
subject  for  to-night.  You  can  hear  more  another  time,  if  vou 
wish  it." 

"  No,"  saidj[)lanche,  eagerly,  yet  very  seriously,  "  we  will  not 
wait ;  you  have  led  me  so  far,  that  you  are  bound  to  \m 
candid." 

"It  IS  a  small  request,"  answered  Eleanor,  in  a  musing  tone. 
"  It  will  not  injure  you  or  iiiconvenience  you  ;  and  you  will 
do  more  good  by  it  than  you  know  or  think." 

"  Only  let  me  know  it,"  repeated  Blanche.  "  If  there  is 
nothing  wrong,  there  can  be  no  cause  for  hesitation." 

"  You  are  suspicious,"  exclaimed  Eleanor.  "  Blanche,  I  would 
rot  suspect  you." 

Blanche  was  silent. 

"Maude  Charlton  has  made  you  so,"  continued  Eleanor; 
"  she  hates  me.  If  it  had  not  been  for  you,  Blanche,  I  would 
not  have  borne  her  behaviour ;  and  now  to  find  that  even  you 
have  turned  against  me  !" 

Blanche  could  not  attempt  to  vindicate  herself — she  only 
said  in  a  faint  voice,  "  I  should  like  to  know  what  I  am  to  do." 

"  I  would  not  ask  a  favor  for  myself,"  began  Eleanor, 
proudly ;  "  but  it  is  for  Charles  and  for  my  mother.  Oh  ! 
Blanche!"  and  her  angry  tone  changed  into  one  of  the  most 
earnest  entreaty,  "  forgive  me  for  being  so  hasty ;  I  am  very 
wretched." 

Blanche  drew  her  affectionately  towards  her,  and  said  "  What 
am  I  to  grant  ? — all  I  have  is  yours." 

"  ic  is  but  to  ask  for — to  persuade  Lord  Rutherford  ;  he  has 
in  his  gift — "  she  paused,  hoping  that  Blanche  would  conclude 
the  sentence  ;  but  no  help  was  given  her,  and  at  lena'tb,  slowly 
and  with  shame,  carne  the  words — "  the  living  of  Whitfield  is 
vacant;  if  it  might  be  for  Charles — promised  him,  kept  for  him, 
I  mean" — she  added.  "  Such  things  are  done."  Blanche  did 
not  speak.  ^,'  K  is  a  very  little  thing,"  repeated  Eleanor  :  "  I 
wonder  I  was  so  shy  of  asking,"  and  she  laughed  that  cold 
empty  laugh  which  betrays  an  aching  heart. 

l>lanclie  was  strangely  silent  and  still. 

EJeanor  was  frightened.  "  It  is  but  a  trifle  after  all,"  she  re- 
pt^atod  again  :  "  so  you  will  say,  Yes,  dearest ;  and  I  will  go." 

But  Blanche  caught  her  dress  as  she  was  about  to  take  up 
11 


240  THE     earl's    daughter. 

her  candle,  and  said  in  a  very  quiet,  low  voice,  "  Don't  ask  it 
again." 

Eleanor  did  not  catch  the  full  meaning  of  the  words,  and 
replied,  "  Yes,  you  are  right ;  we  can't  talk  of  it  now ;  it  is  so  late. 
I  would  not  have  told  you,  if  you  had  not  insisted  upon  it." 

"  But,  Eleanor,  Eleanor,  listen ;"  and  Blanche  kej)t  her  hand, 
and  grasped  it  tightly,  "  I  cannot ; — that  was  what  I  meant ; 
— I  cannot." 

Eleanor  put  down  the  candle  and  sat  down  on  a  chair,  with 
a  face  of  blank  dismay. 

"  I  can  scarcely  ask  you  to  understand,"  said  Blanche,  her 
courage  returning  with  the  eft'urt  she  had  made ;  "  but  it  is  such 
great,  great  pain  to  refuse." 

Eleanor  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  seemed  buried 
in  thought.  When  she  looked  up  she  was  very  pale  and  agi- 
tated, but  not  as  Blanche  had  feared  ;  there  was  no  anger. 

"  I  think,  perhaps,  you  will  know  why  I  cannot,"  said 
Blanche,  gently,  "  when  you  consider  more.  I  do  not  know 
your  brother  well ;  he  has  not  been  tried ;  he  may  not  be  fitted 
for  it ;  and  the  responsibility  would  be  so  great,  if  I  were  to  do 
as  you  desire.     Is  there  nothing  else  I  can  do  ?" 

"  Nothing  ;  but  to  forget  the  request  was  ever  made." 

The  tone  in  which  this  was  said  was  despairing,  and  a  sudden 
perception  of  the  truth  crossed  Blanche's  mind.  "  Eleanor," 
she  exclaimed,  "you  are  asking  this  for  Adelaide  Charlton." 

"  I  am  asking  it  for  myself,"  replied  Eleanor,  in  the  same  cold 
tone  of  wretchedness,  "  and  for  my  mother,  and  my  father — foi 
all  our  happiness  ;  and  you  refuse  it.     Good  night." 

"  Oh  !  Eleanor  !  how  cruel ! "  exclaimed  Blanche  ;  "  but  you 
do  not  mean  it." 

"  I  mean  that  my  happiness  and  my  mother's  are  in  your 
hands,"  said  Eleanor.     "  Good  night." 

Blanche  could  bear  this  no  longer.  "  In  pity,  Eleanor  1"  she 
said,  "  do  not  keep  me  in  mystery.  Why  are  you  so  miserable  ? 
How  is  it  that  so  much  is  involved  in  this  one  request?" 

"  Will  you  know  ?"  asked  Eleanor,  her  eyes  lighted  up  with  a 
gleam  of  hope. 

"Know?  yes,  anything;  if  I  can  only  comfort  and  help 
you." 

Eleanor  paused. 

Blanche  waited,  tremblingly,  for  her  reply.  She  did  not  see — 
for  it  was  not  a  time  of  reasoning — that  her  refusal  was  founded 
upon  grounds  which  nothing  ought  to  shake. 


THE      EAKLS      DAUGHTER.  241 

"  We  may  trust  you,"  continued  Eleanor,  speakino-  more  tc 
herself  than  to  Blanche  ;  "  you  could  not  betray  us.  Yes,  I  am 
sure  we  may  trust  you."  She  paused  again,  and  then  added 
"  Should  you  be  very  much  surprised — would  it  seem  very 
strange  if — if  you  were  to  hear  that  Adelaide  and  Charles  were 
engaged  ?" 

"  Engaged  ! — actually  engaged  ?"  was  all  that  Blanche  could 
say ;  and  thefe  was  more  surprise,  and  even  displeasure,  in  her 
tone  than  Eleanor  was  prepared  for. 

"  Y<fu  shall  hear  about  it,"  said  Eleanor.  "I  was  afiaid  you 
would  be  vexed  ;  yet  I  could  not  tell  you  before." 

"  I  am  not  thinking  of  myself,"  replied  Blanche,  quickly ; 
"  but  quite  engaged  !  who  allows  it  ?" 

"They  allow  it  themselves,"  answered  Eleanor,  with  a  faint 
effort  at  a  smile.  "  But,  Blanche,  dearest,  I  will  tell  you  as 
shortly  as  I  can,  and  then, — "  she  did  not  dare  to  utter  her 
hopes,  but  Blanche  understood  them — "  it  was  soon  after  you 
left  Rutherford  they  wrote  to  each  other,"  began  Eleanor; 
"  that  is — not  themselves  at  first" — she  waited  tor  a  moment, 
and  then  continued,  passionately,  "  I  must  say  it  all  out  j)laiiily  : 
it  is  my  doing — my  folly  I  Oh  !  how  bitterly  I  have  rej)ented 
it.  I  let  them  send  messages  in  my  letters  ;  I  don't  know  whv  ; 
it  was  mere  idle  nonsense.  I  never  thought  for  an  instant  that 
anything  serious  would  follow  ;  and  Charles  did  not  give  me 
the  least  notion  of  what  he  was  going  to  do  ;  but  he  proposed 
quite  suddenly  :  a  sort  of  impulse,  he  told  me  afterwards,  seized 
him.  He  proposed,  and  she  accepted  him,  and  they  were 
engaged." 

Blanche  looked  at  her  quietly  and  simply,  and  asked,  "  And 
what  did  your  mother  say  '" 

"  My  dear,  dear  Blanche  !  what  are  you  thinking  of  ?  Of  all 
persons  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  Charles  dreads  my  mother, 
lie  would  have  borne  tL>rture  rather  than  acknowledge  the  fact 
to  her." 

"  But  she  musii  know  it,"  said  Blanche. 

"  Yes,  in  time  ;  when  she  is  prepared.  But  you  can  scarcely 
understand  whart  her  character  is  like — so  strong,  so  stern,  and 
devoted  ;  so!  rigidly  bent  upon  duty,  and  yet  so  excitable,  and 
her  one  object  in  life  her  children — Charles  especially ;  that  is 
her  object  of  anxiety  ;  she  has  less  fear  for  me,"  and  Eleanor 
sighed  deeply. 

"  She  would  not  like  the  marriage,  I  can  believe,"  naid 
Blanche. 


242  THE    earl's    daughter. 

"No;  slie  is  very  much  prejudiced:  she  has  a  dislike  to 
Adebiide ;  and,  independently  of  that,  she  has  a  horror  of  any- 
thing which  would  interfere  with  Charles's  duties  ;  which  would 
make  him  less  earnest  just  as  he  is  going  to  be  ordained  ;  and 
she  would  feel— it  would  half  kill  her,  I  believe,  if  he  were  to 
do  anything  rash,  now." 

"  Yes,"  said  Blanche,  thouglitfully  ;  "  a  mari-iage  with  a  per- 
son like  Adelaide  at  such  a  moment  would  be  very  sad." 

"  Quite  dreadful,  in  mamma's  eyes,"  exclaimed  Eleanor ;  "  and 
that  is  what  I  am  bent  upon  preventing." 

Blanche  looked  at  her  for  a  further  explanation. 
"You  will  scarcely  see  what  I  am  aiming  at,  at  first,"  pur- 
sued Eleanor ;  "  but  there  is  one  hope,  and  only  one.  Both 
Adelaide  and  Charles  are  wild,  I  believe :  they  think  tliey  can 
live  upon  nothing.  Charles  miglit,  by  the  interest  of  an  uncle, 
get  into  the  army;  but  neither  he  nor  Adelaide  will  now  let 
me  fully  into  their  plans.  Adelaide  dreads  the  thing  beino- 
known,  and  says  her  mother  will  never  hear  of  her  marrving  a 
country  curate,  and  she  encourages  Charles  in  the  notion  of  the 
army." 

"  It  is  very  strange  to  me,"  said  Blanche,  "  that  a  person  like 
Adelaide  should  ever  have  engaged  herself  to  a  country  curate." 
"She  is  so  thoughtless,"  replied  Eleanor;  "I  really  suspect- 
she  scarcely  knows  what  a  country  curate  means ;  only  that  it  is 
something  Lady  Chailton  would  not  like ;  and  then,  to  do  her 
justice,  she  is  not  mercenary,  and,  I  believe,  cares  for  Charles  as 
nmch — as  much  as  she  can  care  for  any  one.  Y"ou  will  under- 
stand, Blanche,  what  a  very  awkward  state  of  afliairs  this  is." 

"Very,"  rephed  Blanche' ;  in  her  heart  thinking  it  so  awk- 
ward that  she  heartily  repented  having  been  made  acquainted 
with  it. 

"  Now,"  continued  Eleanor,  "  I  know  Charles  well  enough 
to  be  quite  sure  he  will  not  go  on  in  this  way  long.  He  might 
persuade  Adelaide  to  a  private  marriage,  even :  I  Avould  not 
trust  him." 

"No,  no,"  exclaimed  Blanche  ;  "  you  must  be  unjust  to  him. 
It  would  be  such  a  bitter  grief  to  his  mother." 

^  "  If  would  be  worse  than  that,"  said  Eleanor  very  gravely  ; 
"it  would  nearly  kill  her  just  now,  on  the  very  eve  of  his  ordi- 
nation :  she,  who  has  such  strict  notions  on  all  these  subjects, 
to  be  so  disappointed  in  him.  Blanche,  it  would  be  very, 
very  dreadful  for  her  to  bear."  There  was  a  silence  for  several 
HiOinents,   and    at    last    Eleanor    raised    her  eyes    /,imidlv    to 


THE    earl's    daughter.  243 

Bhuiche's  face,  and  said,  "  You  can  prevent  it."  There  was  no 
need  for  Blanche  to  seek  for  an  explanation ;  Eleanor  had 
reached  the  point  she  had  been  aiming  at,  and  in  a  hurried  voice 
added,  "  If  Charles  had  any  prospects  in  the  Church  ;  if  he 
had  the  promise  of  such  a  living  as  Whitfield,  for  instance  ;  his 
circumstances  would  be  so  altered  that  he  would  not  be  ashamed 
to  come  forward  openly,  and  Adelaide  would  not  be  afraid,  not 
50  much  afraul  at  least,  to  acknowledge  their 'engagement.  Sir 
Hugh  would  take  her  part,  if  Lady  Charlton  did  not." 

"  Afid  your  mother  and  Dr.  Wentworth  '?"  asked  Blanche. 

"  They  would  be  very  grieved ;  they  would  think  it  infatua- 
tion ;  but,  if  there  was  nothing  clandestine  or  underhand,  they 
would  be  more  inclined  to  excuse  it." 

"  But  at  such  a  time,  just  before  his  ordination,"  persisted 
Blanche. 

"They  would  not  know  it  was  thought  of  now,"  replied 
Eleanor.  "  If  Chailes  had  any  certainty  before  him,  he  would 
wait.  Christmas  is  near;  he  would  delay  mentioning  the  sub- 
ject until  he  was  ordained,  and  then  he  would  prepare  them  for 
it  by  degrees.  It  is  only  this  lingering  uncertainty  which  frets 
him  and  drives  him  to  desperation.  And  one  thing,  Blanche — 
if  things  go  on  as  they  are,  I  am  convinced  that  he  will  never  take 
orders.  Adelaide's  influence  will  lead  him  in  a  contrary  direc- 
tion ;  and,  if  the  engagement  were  to  be  known,  both  my  lather 
and  mother  would  dissu  ide  him  from  it,  at  least  for  the  present 
— they  would  say  his  mind  was  not  in  a  fit  state,  and  he  might 
go  into  the  army ;  into  a  merchant's  office — into — I  don't  know 
what  he  would  do ;  but  mamma  would  be  miserable  for  life." 

"But  Eleanor,  Eleanor,"  exclaimed  Blanche,  and  she  sat  up 
and  looked  at  her  friend  as  if  distrusting  the  evidence  of  her  rea- 
son as  to  the  meaning  of  what  she  had  heard;  "surely,  if  your 
father  and  mother  would  not  consider  him  fit,  he  is  not  so  ;  he 
cannot  be  so  in  the  eye  of  God  ;  and  to  induce  him  to  take  such 
awful  vows ! — to  encourage  him  in  any  way  to  such  self-decep- 
tion ! — indeed,  you  do  not  see  what  you  are  doing." 

"  I  was  prepared  for  this,"  said  Eleanor,  calmly ;  "  remember 
you  ire  judging  Charles  without  knowing  hira.  You  say  he  can- 
Tiot  be  'it  for  holy  ordei"s  now,  because  his  heart  is  set  U]>on  this 
unhappy  engagement.  But  I  know  him  a  great  deal  better 
than  you  do.  Let  him  once  feel  himself  bound,  and  I  venture 
to  say  there  is  not  a  clergyman  in  England  who  will  do  his  duty 
more  conscientiously.  And  consider,  after  all,  there  is  no  great 
sin  in  what  he  is  about.     He  is  in  love  ;  you  and  I  think  it  very 


244  THE    earl's    daugiitku. 

strange  ho  should  be ;  but  tlien,  j'ou  know,  we  cannot  uikI^t- 
stand  half  the  marriages  that  take  place— we  wonder  at  them 
constantly.  I  do  not  think  we,  either  of  us,  are  able  to  make 
excuses  for  him,  such  as  persons  would  do  who  were  more  used 
to  such  nonsense." 

"  But  "Eleanor,"  said  Blanche,  earnestly,  "  I  don't  think  beinr" 
in  love,  as  it  is  called,  is  nonsense.  It  involves  all  the  happi- 
ness of  a  person's  life;  and  if  people  do  not  act  rightly  when 
they  are  in  love,  I  cannot  sec  how  they  are  to  expect  a  blessinor 
when  they  are  married." 

"  There  is  no  harm  in  being  in  love,  that  is  all  I  am  contend- 
ing for,"  said  Eleanor.  "  It  does  not  follow  that  Charles  is  not 
to  make  a  very  good  clergyman,  because,  unfortunately,  he  has 
lost  his  heart  to  Adelaide  Charlton." 

"  Oh  !  Eleanor,"  exclaimed  Blanche,  reproachfully,  "  yOu  are 
trying  to  argue  with  me  as  you  used  to  do  at  St.  Ebbe's.  You 
are  keeping  to  the  letter  of  my  words,  and  missing  the  spirit." 
She  turned  away  her  head,  as  if  to  put  an  end  to  the  subject; 
but  Eleanor  would  not  be  thus  silenced. 

"  Listen  to  me  once  more,  dearest  Blanche,"  she  said  in  an 
altered  voice,  "I  will  not  argue  in  the  way  you  dislike.  I  will 
grant  all  you  say,  if  you  wish  it ;  but  my  mother  was  your 
mother's  best  friend — the  only  friend  who  helped  her  in  her 
hour  of  need.  For  the  sake  of  my  mother,  and  in  remembrance 
of  your  mother,  grant  what  I  have  asked."  Blanche  looked 
round  with  an  expression  of  such  intense  suffering  in  her  coun- 
tenance, that  Eleanor  could  almost  have  wished  the  allusion 
withheld.  Yet  she  pursued  her  advantage  selfishly,  merci- 
lessly ;  she  thought  that  she  was  seeking  the  happiness  of 
others.  "  It  is  no  exaggeration,"  she  said,  "  mamma  is  no  com- 
mon person ;  she  has  for  yeai-s  dwelt  upon  the  hope  of  seeing 
Charles  a  clergyman,  and  she  has  had  no  other  great  interests 
to  distract  her  from  it.  Her  anxiety  for  him,  during  the  last 
two  years,  has  weakened  her  health,  and  I  would  not  answer  for 
the  consequences  of  a  disappointment.  If  you  persist  in  your 
refusal,  I  have  no  expectation  whatever  that  Charles  will  ever 
take  orders ;  he  will  be  driven  to  some  desperate  step  which  will 
bring  misery  upon  us  all  ;  on  the  other  hand,  give  him  a  .ertain 
hope,  and  he  will  be  patient  and  good,  and  bend  his  thoughts 
to  his  duties ;  and  after  he  is  ordained,  and  quietly  settled  down 
as  a  clergyman,  he  will  break  the  matter  to  papa  and  mamma ; 
and  though  there  might  be  a  good  deal  of  fuss  and  difficulty  at 
tirst.  all  will  be  well  in  the  end.     Oh,  Blanche  !  surely  you  can- 


THE      earl's      daughter.  i43 

not  refuse  now  ?"  Blanche  was  silent.  "  You  shall  think  of  it." 
persisted  Eleanor.  "I  have  kept  you  awake  a  great  deal  tu<i 
long  to-night ;  but  to-morrow  morning  you  shall  tell  me  tliiit 
you  will  agree.  It  is  the  first  great  favour,  the  first  real  favour, 
I  ever  asked  of  you."  Blanche  returned  the  kiss,  which  accom- 
panied these  words,  warmly ;  but  her  face  was  burnino-  with 
fever  and  agitation,  and  her  cheeks  were  wet  with  tears.  For 
the  moment' Eleanor  reproached  herself;  yet  even  then  her 
eagerness  got  the  better  of  her  real  affection,  and  as  she  wished 
Blandhe  good  night,  she  added,  "  Remember,  my  mother's  haj 
piness  rests  upon  your  decision." 


CHAPTER  XL. 

"  And  now,  my  dear  Lady  Charlton,  you  reall}^  will  let  me  per- 
suade you,"  said  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey,  the  next  morning,  as  she 
sat  at  the  writing  table,  sealing  letters  for  the  post,  and  profess- 
ing that  her  necessary  correspondence  was  the  very  torment  of 
her  life ;  "you  really  Avill  let  me  carry  off  Adelaide.  I  quite  see 
all  your  objections ;  the  awkward  time,  just  after  your  party, 
and  the  long  night  drive,  and  the  discomforts  ;  but  you  know 
I  will  take  imcommon  care  of  her,  just  the  same  as  I  would  of 
my  own  chjld." 

"  There  was  no  doubt  of  that,"  Lady  Charlton  said,  though 
not  very  cordially. 

"  Then  what  are  the  obstacles  ?  if  I  could  only  know  them 
and  obviate  them,  I  should  be  so  glad." 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  could  say  why  I  object,"  replied  Lady 
Charlton,  assuming  an  air  of  frankness ;  "  it  is  a  question  of 
feeling  more  than  of  principle.  Adelaide  is  so  unfortunately 
thoughtless." 

"  Yes — young,  girlish — you  could  not  be  afraid  of  her 
with  me." 

"Of  course  not;  you  must  not  think  so;  but  I  am  always 
more  happy  when  Adelaide  is  under  my  own  eye.  A  mother's 
anxiet}'^  you  know !"  and  Lady  Charlton  sighed. 

"Certainly;  no  one  can  enter  into  that  more  than  I  do," 
replied  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey ;  "  left  with  two  dear  girls — not  a 
person  to  look  to — no  Sir  Hugh  to  manage  for  one ;  at  times 
the  burthen  is  indescribable.  Agnes,  love,"  and  she  turned  to 
her  eldest  daughter,  who  was  working  at  the  other  end  of  the 


246  THE      EARL    S      DAUGHTER. 

room,  "I  think  you  had  better  be  dressed  for  your  ride  before 
luncheon.  The  days  close  in  so  fast  now,  you  will  have  no  time 
if  you  don't  set  oil"  directly  afterwards." 

Miss  Grey  ex])ressed  a  doubt  whether  some  change  had  not 
taken  place  in  the  general  plans  since  breakfast.  Lord  Ruther- 
ford, she  thought,  was  to  have  gone  with  them,  but  Maude  had 
told  her  he  had  changed  his  mind,  so  perhaps  there  would  be 
no  rilling  that  day. 

"  01),  yes,  my  love,  put  on  your  habit ;  I  won't  hear  of  you 
staying  at  home,  if  there  is  a  possibility  of  going  out.  So  deli- 
Ciite  as  she  is,"  continued  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey,  addressing  Lady 
Charlton,  "it  would  be  quite  wrong  to  miss  such  a  day  as  this  ; 
and  some  one  will  be  certain  to  take  pity  on  her.  But  why  was 
the  party  broken  up,  my  dear  ;  do  you  know  ?" 

Miss  Grey  did  not  know,  but  she  believed  it  was  Lord  Ruther- 
ford's doing,  lie  had  come  into  the  room  about  an  hour  before, 
looking  very  uncomfortable  ;  and,  after  that,  she  had  heard  frou) 
Maude  that  he  was  not  going. 

"  lie  is  anxious,"  said  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey,  carelessly. 

"  Lady  Blanche  ouglit  to  be  better  this  morning,"  observed 
Miss  Grey  ;  "  she  is  down  stairs,  and  has  been  sitting  with  LoriJ 
Rutherford." 

"  Yes,  for  nearly  an  hour,"  observed  Lady  Charlton,  in  a  par 
ticularl)^  grave  voice. 

Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey  instantly  changed  her  tone,  and  inquired 
whether  Lady  Charlton  thought  there  was  any  cause  for  anxiety. 

"  Not  exactly,"  was  the  reply.  Mr.  Somers  had  assured  them 
there  was  not  anything  seriously  amiss,  only  care  was  required. 
And  naturally  enough  with  an  only  child,  even  a  slight  indis- 
position was  a  subject  of  uneasiness. 

"  I-ady  Blanche  is  going  out,  I  ratlier  think,"  said  Miss  Grey, 
"  and  Lord  Rutherford  is  to  drive  her." 

"  Going  out ! — impossiljle  !"  exclaimed  Lady  Charlton.  "  My 
dear  Miss  Grey,  why  did  you  not  tell  me  before?  I  must 
instantly  prevent  it."  She  hurried  from  the  room  as  Miss  Grey 
said,  in  an  under  tone,  "  Prevent  it,  if  possible  ;  but  that  is  not 
quite  the  order  of  the  day." 

"  Then  what  is  it  ? — What  is  the  matter,  Agnes,  my  love  ? 
Is  Lady  Blanche  seriously  worse  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Cuthbert 
Grey,  with  some  curiosity. 

"Not  that  I  know  of,"  replied  Miss  Grey  ;  " at  least  Maude 
told  me  she  was  not ;  but  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  for  a  moment, 
'.nd  she  looks  ten  degrees  at  least  worse  than  yesterday." 


THE      EARL    S      DAUGHTER.  247 

"  And  tliey  are  uneasy,  then,"  continued  her  mother.  "  Well, 
that  is  not  to  be  wondered  at ;  though  really,  if  I  were  Lord 
Rutherford,  I  could  be  happier  to  see  lier  dying  of  consumption, 
than  to  know  that  she  was  to  live  to  be  what  her  nioiiier  wjis.' 

"  Lady  Rutherford !  there  was  nothing  the  matter  with  her, 
mamma,  more  than  ordinary  illness,  was  there  ?"  inquired  Miss 
Grey,  quickl}'. 

"Only  thai  she  was  out  of  her  mind,"  replied  Mrs.  Cuthbcrt 
Grey  ;  "  and  that  there  is  every  probability  that  this  poor  child, 
if  slie^ives,  will  be  the  same." 

Miss  Grey  looked  very  much  shocked.  She  had  never  heard 
the  fact  before. 

"  It  is  not  generally  known,"  continued  i\Irs.  Cuthbert  Giey  ; 
"  the  family  tried  to  keep  it  as  quiet  as  possible  :  but  things  will 
get  abroad  through  servants,  and  there  is  no  doubt  poor  Lady 
Rutherford  was  quite  insane ;  a  kind  of  melancholy  madness, 
which  took  a  religious  turn." 

"  Lady  Blanche  is  very  religious,"  observed  Miss  Grey. 

"  Yes  ;  and  it  is  that  which  would  make  me  so  uneasy.  Lord 
Rutherford  is  not  satisfied  himself,  I  am  sure ;  he  watches  her 
unceasingly ;  f  have  observed  him  particularly  the  last  few 
days." 

"  Lady  Blanche  looked  melancholy  enough  this  morning," 
observed  Miss  Grey  ;  "  she  was  coming  down  the  stairs,  wrapt  up 
in  a  shawl ;  ^and  I  thought  her  the  picture  of  misery  ;  and  just 
at  that  moment  Miss  Wentworth  met  her,  and  she  seemed  so 
hurried  and  fluttered,  I  really  pitied  her." 

"  I  should  not  like  it,"  said  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey,  shaking  her 
head.  "  Those  peculiar  notions  of  hers  are  just  the  things  to 
turn  her  brain.  I  don't  mean  that  there  is  any  likelihood  of 
such  a  calamity,  at  the  present  time,  poor  child  !  It  would  be 
dreadful  if  there  were  ;  but  if  she  were  to  fall  into  ill  health,  and 
these  morbid  fancies  were  to  increase,  I  should  not  be  in  the 
least  surprised  :  it  was  precisely  the  case  with  her  mother. 
People  said  Lord  Rutherford  did  not  treat  her  well ;  but  he  had 
a  great  deal  to  bear,  I  suspect.  1  hope  it  won't  be  the  same 
thing  over  agaiu  now." 

"  Every  one  is  out  of  sorts  this  morning,"  observed  Miss  Grey; 
"  Maude  Charlton  is  shorter  and  sharper  than  ever.  lieally,  if 
it  were  not  for  her  splendid  voice,  no  one  would  bear  wilJi  her  : 
jind  Adelaide  is  in  such  a  strange  mood,  I  can't  in  the  least  mako 
her  out.  One  minute  she  laughs  and  talks  as  if  she  was  in  the 
highest  spirits,  and  then  she  seems  quite  abstracted." 


248  THE      earl's      DAIGHTER. 

"  Whimsical,  my  dear,  whimsical,"  said  Mrs.  Cuthbeit  Grey 
oracularly.  "  Adelaide  likes  being  odd ;  but  we  will  carry  hei 
away  with  us,  and  we  shall  soon  bring  back  her  spirits." 

"  If  she  will  go,"  observed  Miss  Grey.  "  She  seemed  doubt- 
ful at  first,  when  I  spoke  about  it  this  morning  ;  but  there  will 
be  an  attraction  for  her  in  the  neighbourhood.  Miss  Went- 
•vorth  and  her  brother  will  be  at  Mr.  Johnstone's." 

"  ller  brother !"  repeated  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey :  "  I  never 
heard  of  liim." 

"  Oh,  mamma  !"  and  ^liss  Grey  lauglied.  "  I  thought  every 
one  knew  about  Adelaide's  flirtation  with  Mr.  Wentworth." 

"  I  think  I  have  heard  something,"  was  the  reply  ;  "  but  ycxj 
know,  my  dear  Agnes,  if  one  is  to  be  always  au  fait  upon  the 
subiject  of  Adelaide's  foUies,  one  must  make  it  the  labour  of  life. 
A  great  pity  it  is  such  a  nice  girl  as  she  is,  in  many  ways,  should 
have  been  so  carelessly  brought  up.  I  must  not  keep  you,  how- 
ever, my  love.  Put  on  your  riding  habit,  and  you  will  be  sure 
to  find  some  one  to  accompany  you.  And  remember,  dear,  if  it 
should  chance  to  be  Lord  Erlsmere,  and  you  should  be  talking 
of  Lady  Blanche,  you  must  not  speak  quite  as  plainly  as  I  did 
just  now  about  the  unfortunate  malady.  It  does  not  do  to  give 
more  than  a  hint  upon  such  topics ;  especially  where  it  is  possi- 
ble the  subject  may  be  a  tender  one  ;  though,  for  his  own  sake, 
one  could  wish  that  he  knew  the  facts  well.  Now  go  and  dress 
as  quickly  as  you  can." 


CHAPTER  XLL 

M[ss  Grey's  oliservation,  that  every  one  was  out  of  sorts  tliat 
morning,  was  quite  correct.  A  much  stronger  expression  indeed 
might  have  been  used  to  describe  what  seemed  the  prevailing 
spirit  of  indefinable  gloom  and  uneasiness.  With  one,  the  most 
innocent  and  guileless  of  all,  it  was  a  melancholy  which  could 
not  be  concealed  or  cast  off  ;  and  there  were  ^those  about  her, 
who,  from  different  causes,  were  so  influenced  by  her  as  to  feel 
their  own  spirits  rise  or  fall  with  hers.  Lord  Rutherford  did  not 
believe,  with  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey,  that  his  child's  religious 
notions  wero  in  themselves  likely  to  injure  her  mind.  He  had 
already  seen  too  much  of  their  soothing  and  strengthening 
effect  to  indulge  such  fears.  Perhaps,  if  he  had  been  asked,  he 
might  even  have  allowed  that  they  were  the  ballast  to  a  dispa 


THE     EAULS     DAUGHTER.  2iG 

sition  naturally  too  excitable ;  but  the  one  dread  which — thousjh 
he  shrank  from  owning  it  to  himself — -was  never  entirely  absent 
from  his  thoughts,  made  him  look  with  suspicious  anxiety  upon 
every  indication  of  depression  or  inequality  of  spirits,  as  being 
the  possible  precursor  of  that  morbid  sadness  which  had  caused 
so  much  of  the  misery  of  her  mother's  life.  Of  physical  illness 
he  thought  for  less.  Blanche  was  delicate ;  but  not,  he 
imagined,  rriore  so  than  many  who  seemed  likely  to  live  to  old 
j«ge.  Ue  had  never  permitted  himself  to  deem  it  possible  that 
she  c6uld  be  taken  from  him  ;  it  was  an  icta  so  dreadful,  that 
if,  for  a  moment,  it  crossed  his  mind,  he  discarded  it  as  weak, 
self  tormenting.  Blanche  was  his  one  treasure — that  for  which 
alone  Hfe  could  be  endured — and  it  could  not  be — so  he  had  at 
times  said  to  himself — it  coidd  not  be,  that  she  should  be 
removed,  and  he  be  left  desolate.  Why  it  could  not  be  he 
never  inquired — why  he  was  to  be  saved  from  a  ..ial  to  which, 
thousands  before  him  had  been  subjected,  or  what  he  bad  done 
to  deserve  such  an  exemption.  Suffering  had  for  years  been 
present  to  him  only  in  remembrance  ;  and  he  could  not  yet 
believe,  that,  except  under  one  form,  it  might  again  be  inflicted 
in  the  mercy  or  the  wi-ath  of  God. 

Yet  something  did  come  before  him  that  morning,  as  he  sat 
alone  with  Blanche  in  the  study  within  the  library,  where  his 
mornings  were  usually  spent — a  shadow,  though  faint  and  dis- 
tant, of  coming  evil. 

Blanche 'had  dressed  earlier  than  he  expected;  and  he 
t.houiJ'ht,  when  he  saw  her  in  her  room,  she  must  be  better — at 
least  she  did  not  complain  ;  and  when  he  begged  her  to  come 
down  stairs,  and  stay  with  him  quietly  instead  of  remaining  by 
herself,  she  had  consented  readily.  There  seemed  less  to  cause 
uneasiness  than  even  on  the  preceding  day,  as  regarded  her 
health  ;  but  there  was  a  change  in  her  manner  which  he  could 
not  help  noticing.  She  was  so  very  quiet,  so  wrapt  up  in  her 
own  thoughts  ;  and  any  attention  to  what  he  said  was  evidently 
such  an  effort.  Ue  hinted  several  times  his  fear  that  she  was 
fretted,  anxious,  uncomfortable  ;  but  there  was  always  the  same 
sweet  smile  and  bright  glance  of  gratitude  and  love  in  answer, 
and  for  the  moment  he  was  satisfied  that  it  was  mere  fancy  ;  yet 
a  little  more  observation  brought  back  suspicion.  Something 
»vas  weif  hing  upon  her  mind  causing  melancholy  and  reserve  ; 
and  the  supposition  which  would  have  crossed  the  mind  of 
another,  as  a  natural  annoyance,  gave  a  p;ing  sharp  as  a  dag- 
ger's thrust  to  the  sensitive  spirit  of  Lord  Rutherford. 


JirO  THE      earl's      DAUGUrER. 

And  it  was  no  fancy  :  Blanche  Ava.s  uiihappy — more  uiiliappj 
than  she  had  been  before  from  any  but  external  causes. 
Eleanor's  hist  words — "  My  mother's  happiness  rests  upon  your 
decision" — were  the  tirst  which  occurred  to  her  remembrance 
wlien  she  awoke  after  a  restless  and  unrefreshing  sleep.  The 
thoughts  tliat  accomjianied  them — harassing  and  confusing — 
made  her  long  to  lay  her  head  again  upon  lier  pillow,  and 
forget.  Pain  and  disappointment  came,  with  the  recollection  of 
Eleanor's  conduct — shame,  at  the  consciousness  of  having  been 
made  privy  to  a  secret  in  which  there  was  so  much  to  disap- 
]n-ove ;  and,  above  all,  a  distracting  doubt  when  the  question 
arose  as  to  her  own  determination.  For  there  was  much  to  be 
said — she  could  not  help  acknowledging  it  when  she  tried  to 
think  upon  the  subject  dis])assionately — there  was  much  to  be 
alleged,  at  least,  in  excuse  for  Eleanor's  wishes.  To  prevent  a 
great  evil — to  save  her  brother  from  a  rash  step,  which  he  might 
regret  for  life — and  to  spare  Mrs.  VVentworth  a  trial,  the  effects 
of  which  no  one  could  foresee — were  reasons  quite  sufficient  to 
account  for  the  earnestness  with  which  Eleanor  pui-sued  a 
request  that,  under  other  circumstances,  she  would  herself  have 
been  one  of  the  first  to  condemn.  No  one  had  in  general 
higher  views  than  Eleanor,  of  the  awfulness  and  importance  of 
a  clergyman's  duty ;  or  of  the  lasting  evil  which  arises  from  any 
carelessness  in  the  bestowal  of  Church  Patronage.  Blanche 
had  heard  her  speak  almost  uncharitably  of  an  instance  of  indif- 
ference upon  this  point  which  had  coine  under  their  own  notice. 
She  had  herself  taken  in  a  degree  the  part  of  the  accused,  and 
suggested  extenuations  which  Eleanor  could  not  be  induced  to 
accept. 

It  might,  therefore,  naturally  be  supposed  that,  in  the  jireseut 
instance,  Eleanor  saw  reasons  sufficient  to  satisfy  her  that  she 
was  not  doing  wrong  in  supporting  her  brother's  wishes. 
Blanche,  indeed,  did  not  comprehend  them.  Mr.  Wentworth 
to  her  appeared  vevy  unfitted  to  take  orders.  lie  gave  her  the 
idea  of  a  vain,  unsteady,  though  clever  and  agreeable,  person. 
But  Eleanor  said  he  was  much  better  than  he" appeared  ;  and 
who  could  be  so  good  a  judge  as  a  sister  ?  Then,  again,  khe 
was  not  called  upon  to  decide  the  question  of  fitness.  Dr. 
Wentworth — a  very  excellent,  sensiWe  person — did  not  object 
to  his  son's  being  a  clergyman.  Mrs.  Wentworth,  of  whose 
goodness  there  could  be  no  possible  doubt,  encouraged  the 
notion.  Why  was  Blanche  to  put  her  judgment  against  theirs, 
and  refuse  to  do  a  kindness,  because  the  individual  who  asked 


THE      EARLS      DAUGHTER.  'J5\ 

it  had,  uiifortuiiately,  fallen  in  Io\-e,  and  engaged  himself  to  a 
person  not  likely  to  make  a  good  clergyman's  wife.  It  seemed 
— really  it  seemed  upon  consideration — that  she  might,  at  least, 
please  Eleanor  by  asking  the  favour  of  her  fatlier  ;  and  that  the 
responsibility  of  the  decision  might  be  left  in  his  liands.  If  the 
petition  were  granted,  the  gift  would  be  Lord  Rutherford's,  not 
hers  ;  if  it  were  denied,  no  blame  of  unkindness  could  attach 
to  her  ;  an^,  whatever  consequences  might  arise  from  the  impa- 
tience and  imprudence  of  Mr.  Wentvvorth  and  AdeUide,  she 
wouW  have  done  all  that  lay  in  her  power  to  prevent  them.  So 
1  ilanche  reasoned  with  herself  at  one  moment  ;  so  she  almost 
pei*suaded  herself  to  remove  the  w-eight  upon  her  mind,  by 
speaking  to  her  father  on  the  first  opportunity.  But  she  was 
standing  by  her  dressing-table,  putting  round  her  neck  the 
chain  and  locket  which  Mrs.  Howard  had  given  her.  Her  eye 
fell  upon  the  date  inscribed  upon  the  locket — the  date  of  her 
confirmation.  How  many,  many  thoughts  were  suggested  by 
it  ! — thoughts  of  holiness  and  purity,  and  that  single  eye  to  the 
glory  of  God  which  can  alone  assist  us  to  a  right  determination. 
x\gain,  Blanche  knelt  in  thought  at  the  Cathedral  altar,  and 
renewed  the  vow  of  her  baptism  ;  again,  she  seemed  to  listen  to 
the  warning  against  even  the  "  appearance  of  evil  ;"  and  to 
recall  the  intensity  of  jjurpose  with  which  she  had  sealed  the 
public  profession  of  her  devotion,  by  the  secret  vow  w'hich,  in  that 
glorious  temple  and  that  awful  Presence,  appeared  doubly  sacred 
and  binding.  She  had  been  told,  then,  that  no  action  could  be 
safe  that  ajipeared  doubtful  when  she  thought  of  the  Judgement  : 
her  present  difficulty  could  be  tried  by  that  test.  When  the 
account  of  all  things  done  in  the  flesh  should  be  rendered 
be<bre  God,  how  would  she  feel  if  she  yielded  to  the  present 
temptation  ?  Before  that  dread  Tribunal  would  meet  the  ricli 
and  the  poor — the  learned  and  the  ignoiant — the  giver  and  the 
receiver  ;  there,  the  true  consequences  of  every  action  would  be 
fully  seen  ;  and  there,  the  curse  of  the  hundreds  who  might 
be  ruined  by  the  evil  example  of  an  indifterent  or  negligent 
clergyman  would  fall,  also,  upon  her  head.  No  kindness  or 
attection  for  individuals  would,  in  that  day,  ]>lead  her  excuse. 
If  she  wilfully  and  knowingly  aided  in  confiding  such  a  solemn 
trust  to  a  person  whom  she  had  reason  to  believe  unfitted  for  it, 
she  could  not  be  held  guiltless  of  the  result. 

Thoughts  like  these  were  easily  encouraged  and  treasured  up 
in  sohtude,  and,  when  Blanche  left  her  room,  her  determination 
was  so  fixed  that  she  was  comparatively  at  peace.     She  wished 


252  THE    earl's    daughter. 

that  Eleanor  had  come  to  her  earlier,  so  as  to  be  assured  thai 
any  further  hopes  were  vain  ;  but  Eleanor  delayed,  and  Blanche 
dreaded  seeing  her,  and  when  they  met  accidentally,  as  Miss 
Grey  had  noticed,  Eleanor's  countenance  and  manner  gave  her 
a  l»ang  which  she  could  scarcely  bear ;  and,  in  an  iustant,  all 
the  former  suggestions  and  doubts  returned. 

To  a  person  in  perfect  health  this  state  of  indecision  would 
have  been  very  trying ;  but,  to  Blanche,  never  very  strong,  and 
at  that  time  suffering  from  serious  indisposition,  it  was  crushing. 
She  sat  in  her  father's  room,  with  a  book  resting  upon  her 
knees,  scarcely  able  to  appear  to  read,  and  finding  it  difficult 
even  to  reply  to  common  questions  ;  whilst  pondering  over  and 
over  the  arguments  for  and  against  her  decision  ;  and  even, 
whilst  feeling  herself  right,  not  able  to  rest  satisfied  without 
reviewing  her  reasons,  repeating  all  that  could  be  said  on  tlie 
opposite  side  of  the  question,  and  tormenting  herself  with 
imagining  all  the  possible  consequences  of  her  refusal,  and  the 
responsibility  it  seemed  she  was  incurring. 

Lord  Rutherford  tried  in  many  ways  to  engage  her  attention. 
He  showed  her  his  letters,  consulted  her  upon  some  improve- 
ments which  were  to  be  made  at  Rutherford,  and,  at  length, 
finding  every  attempt  fail,  sank  back  in  his  chair  with  a 
heavy  sigh  and  a  ftice  which  showed  uneasiness  of  no  ordinary 
nature. 

"  You  are  going  out  this  afternoon,  are  you  not,  papa  ?"  said 
Blanche,  aroused,  at  length,  to  a  consciousness  that  his  change 
of  manner  was  caused  by  her. 

"  Yes,  I  thought  I  s)iould  ;  but  I  don't  know  now.  I  can't 
go  with  all  that  party." 

"  You  will  not  stay  in  for  me,"  said  Blanche,  affectionately. 
"  I  should  be  quite  vexed  if  you  were  to  do  so." 

"There  is  no  pleasure  in  going  out  without  you  ;"  and  Lord 
Rutherford  left  his  seat,  and  walked  slowly  up  and  down  the 
room.  131anche  cast  her  eyes  again  upon  her  book  ;  for  she 
felt  perplexed,  as  if  she  did  not  know  what  to  say  even  to  him, 
and  in  a  moment  the  current  of  her  thoughts  had  returned  to 
its  former  channel.  When  she  looked  up  again,  after  several 
minutes,  her  tather  was  standing  by  the  fire,  resting  one  arm 
upon  the  mantelpiece,  and  watching  her  narrowly.  She  could 
not  bear  this,  and  tried  agam  to  enter  into  conversation. 

"  You  will  go  out  to  please  me,"  she  said,  with  an  effort  tc 
%]ioak  lightly. 

He  did  not  smile  or  make  any  answer   in  return   for  a  feTT 


THE      EARL    S      DAUGHTER.  253 

JTiomeiits,  but  then  he  exdaimed  suddenly,  "  Your  aunt  was 
wronjT  in  ur^'ing  me  to  bring  you  here,  liutherfurd  was  youi 
best  home." 

"  It  was  my  liappiest  home,"  said  Blanche,  quietly.  "  I  waa 
more  iseful  there." 

The  earl  started,  as  if  a  new  idea  had  been  suggested  to 
him.  "  YeSj  occupation  :  of  course,  occupation,"  he  murmured 
to  himself;  then  again,  recurring  to  the  former  subject,  he 
repeated,  "  Rutherford  was  your  best  home ;  we  will  go  back 
ther^' 

"  May  we  ?  shall  we  ?"  replied  Blanche.  Her  eyes  bright- 
ened with  pleasure,  for  in  leaving  Senilhurst  she  thought  she 
should  leave  temptation  and  trial. 

"  Do  you  wish  it  ?"  said  the  earl,  eagerly,  almost  hastily. 
"  You  should  have  told  me  before." 

"  It  is  not  a  fixed  wish  ;  only  at  times,"  said  Blanche ;  ''  but 
I  should  like  to  feel  that  I  could  be  doing  something.  There 
is  nothing  but  amusement  here,  except,  just  now,  the  little 
boy  at  the  lodge  ;  that  is  the  only  thing  I  seem  to  have  par- 
ticularly to  attend  to.  I  should  like  to  see  the  toys  that  were 
bought  for  him." 

'*  How  could  I  have  forgotten  !"  exclaimed  the  earl,  ringing 
the  bell  violently.  That  one  slight  allusion  to  a  wish  was  a 
command.  He  threw  all  his  energy,  in  an  instant,  into  the 
subject,  ordered  the  parcel  to  be  brought,  and  drawing  Blanche's 
chair  to  the  table,  knelt  on  one  knee  beside  her,  with  his  arm 
round  her  waist,  and  spread  the  little  toys  before  her  and 
discussed  which  it  would  be  best  to  give,  with  an  earnestness 
most  touching,  yet  most  sad,  for  it  was  the  earnestness  of 
idolatry. 

Blanche's  thoughts  were  a  little  diverted  for  the  moment. 
She  was  particularly  fond  of  children,  and  the  little  fellow  in 
whom  she  now  interested  herself  w'as  singularly  engaging. 
She  had  seen  him  several  times  since  the  first  day  of  his  serious 
illness ;  as  often,  indeed,  as  the  weather  and  her  own  heaUh 
would  permit  : — for  the  lodge  was  within  a  short  walking 
distance,  and'  she  could  often  go  there  when  she  was  not  able 
to  attempt  anything  beyond.  She  thought  him  very  ill  her- 
self; though  the  parents  would  not  allow  it,  and  even  the 
medical  man  spoke  sanguinely  of  his  ultimate  recovery :  and 
witli  this  idea,  she  exerted  herself  for  him  more  than  perhaps 
was  always  prudent. 

In  a  place  where   there  was  so  little  opportunity  for  per- 


254  THE      EARLS      D  A  U  G  H  T  E  li  . 

Bonal  exeition,  this  one  case  seemed  to  have  a  peculiar  claim 
upon  her. 

])Ut  Lord  Rntlierford  was  not  inclined,  on  that  day,  to  think 
of  prudence.  As  soon  as  he  saw  that  Blanche  could  smile  and 
take  pleasure  in  consulting  for  the  child's  amusement,  his 
whole  heart  was  bent  upon  gratifying  her  fancy  to  the  utmost ; 
and,  notwithstanding  Lady  Charlton's  entreaties,  he  pei'sistt-d 
in  the  idea  of  driving  her  to  the  lodge,  after  luncheon,  insteat' 
of  riding,  as  he  had  intended. 

This  gleam  of  sunshine,  however,  was  but  transitory.  When 
the  question  of  the  toys  was  settled,  Blanche  returned  to  her 
book  and  her  restless  thoughts,  and  Lord  Rutherford  to  his 
watchfulness  and  foreboding.  The  luncheon-bell  rang,  and 
Blanche  proposed  to  join  the  rest  of  the  party.  "  It  was 
making  less  fuss,"  she  said,  "  and  she  need  not  stay  long." 

The  earl  was  relieved  at  the  suggestion  :  anything  was  better 
for  her  than  sitting  alone ;  anything  was  preferable  for  himself  than 
to  witness  even  the  feintest  possible  shadow  of  that  melancholy 
love  of  solitude  which  had  been  her  mother's  characteristic. 

The  dining-room  was  filled  when  they  went  in.  Miss  Grey, 
dressed  in  her  riding-habit,  was  acting  extreme  surprise  and 
disappointment  at  the  breaking  up  of  the  afternoon's  engage- 
ment, and  looking  wistfully  at  Lord  Erlsmere  for  sympathy, 
which  he  did  not  appear  inclined  to  give,  his  attention  being 
engaged  by  a  chance  visitor,  who  was  believed  to  have  consider- 
able parhamentary  influence. 

Blanche,  however,  had  neither  care  nor  thought  for  any  one 
except  Eleanor.  She  did  not  see  her  at  first,  for  they  were  on 
the  same  side  of  the  table  and  far  apart ;  and,  after  a  little  time, 
she  began  to  feel  faint  and  nervous,  and  repented  having  come 
into  a  crowded  room.  The  talking  and  laughing  that  were 
going  on  around  her  made  her  head  dizzy ;  and  it  was  an  effort 
to  her  to  try  and  catch  Eleanor's  voice,  and  judge  if  she  w.'is 
really  as  wretched  as  she  had  looked  in  the  morning. 

However,  something  was  said,  at  length,  which  effectually 
aroused  her  from  the  dreamy  state  into  which  she  was  sinking 
It  was  a  speech  addressed  to  Lord  Kutlierford  by  Sir  Hugh, 

"  My  dear  Rutherford,  you  will  excuse  me  :  I  hope  it  is  not 
intruding — not  trespassing  too  much  upon  the  rights  of  private 
})ati'onage  ;  but,  pray,  what  have  you  settled  as  to  that  great 
living  of  yours,  Whitfield  ?" 

The  knife  which  Blanche  hold  in  her  hand  dropped  from  it, 
as  she  sat,  motionless,  to  hear  the  answer. 


THE    earl's    daughter.  255 

"  Nothing." 

Sir  Ilugli  was  a  little  daunted  by  its  shortness  ;  especially  as 
Lady  Charlton,  at  the  same  instant,  sent  a  lightning-glance  of 
caution  across  the  table ;  and,  nearly  as  quick,  a  message,  by  a 
servant,  to  beg  that  Sir  Ilugh  would  tell  Pearson  where  to  tind 
a  curious  collection  of  parliamentary  tracts,  for  Lord  Erlsmere 
and  his  friends  to  look  at  after  luncheon.  But  Sir  Hugh 
returned  to  tTie  charge.  "  It  was  a  famous  piece  of  patronage, 
— that  living;  one  of  the  best  in  England.  Some  people  con- 
sidered it  the  high-road  to  a  bishopric,  since  two  bishops  had, 
within  a  few  years,  held  it.  Not  that  he  was  of  that  opinion  ; 
he  had  made  many  observations  upon  the  subject ;  more,  he 
suspected,  than  most  people.  He  had  kept  lists  of  all  the 
bishops  made  within  his  recollection,  and  traced  out  the  causes 
of  their  election.  It  was  not  every  one  who  could  do  so ;  but, 
with  his  extensive  acquaintance — his  connection  with  the  late 
premier — his — "  Sir  Hugh  had  quite  lost  himself;  but  he 
nodded  his  head,  oracularly,  and  ended  with — "  depend  upon 
it,  there  is  a  good  deal  of  mystery  in  the  appointment  of 
bishops." 

Lord  Erlsme're    caught  the  last  words,  and  turning  to  Sir 

Hugh,  asked  if  he  had  heard  that  Dr. was  certainly  to 

have  the  next  vacant  seat  on  the  Bench. 

Sir  Hugh  supposed  and  inferred,  and  thought  it  most 
probable,  from  his  own  private  means  of  information  ;  and  he  had 
a  great  many,  a  very  great  many,  as  Lord  Erlsmere  must  be 
aware  ;  but  he  was  not  then  thinking  about  bishops,  he  was 
merely  giving  his  opinion  about  the  living  of  AYhittield,  one 
of  the  largest  livings  in  England. 

"  Oh  yes,  by-the-bye ;"  and  Lord  Erlsmere  innocently 
appealed  to  Lord  Rutherford  for  information,  not  being  aware 
that  the  decision  was  still  uncertain,  and  that  the  earl  disliked 
all  curiosity  upon  what  he  deemed  his  private  aftairs. 

The  answer  was  as  unsatisfactory  as  before ;  but  it  had  not 
the  effect  of  setting  aside  the  subject,  which  was  now  fairly 
established.  The  value  of  the  living,  its  claims,  and  its  respon- 
.sibilities,  were  all  discussed  ;  not  earnestly  by  any  one  but  Lord 
Erlsmere  ;  yet  the  fiicts  brought  forward,  of  spiritual  destitu- 
tion, ignorance,  and  crime,  were  very  startling  and  dreadful  to 
Blanche.  She  had  never  heard  of  such  details  before  ;  and,  as 
she  listened  to  them,  it  seemed  that  even  Eleanor,  with  all  her 
fondness  for  her  brother,  could  scarcely  put  his  interest  in  com- 
petition with  the  welfare  of  thousands.     Unconsciously  a  sigh 


250  THE    earl's    daughter, 

escaped  her  ;  it  reached  the  quick  eye  of  her  father,  and  m  an 
under-tone  he  asked  if  she  was  tired  ;  but  she  scarcely  heard 
liiin,  so  intent  was  she  upon  a  story,  a  horrible  story,  of  sutier- 
in^  and  misery,  which  Lord  Erlsniere  was  telhng  Lady 
Charhon.  It  was  suffering  from  a  clergyman's  neglect.  In  her 
eagerness  Blanche  leant  forward,  her  eye  caught  Eleanor's,  and 
the  next  moment  Eleanor  pushed  back  her  chair,  and  excusing 
herself  to  Lady  Charlton,  by  raying  that  she  did  not  feel  well, 
left  the  room  by  herself. 

"  You  shall  not  go  with  her,"  said  Maude  Charlton,  going 
behind  Blanche's  chair ;  as,  with  a  face  of  anxiety,  she  was 
about  to  rise  and  follow.  She  laid  her  hand  firmly  upon 
Blanche's  shoulder  and  continued  in  a  low  voice,  "Trust  me,  she 
is  not  really  ill." 

Blanche  tried  to  free  lierself,  but  Maude  still  kept  behind  her, 
and  addressing  Lord  Rutherford,  begged  him  to  carry  Blanche 
away  to  his  study.  "  I  shall  take  care  of  Miss  Wentworth 
myself,''  she  added. 

Blanche  looked  up  with  a  feeling  of  irritation,  and  answered, 
almost  haughtily,  that  it  was  her  wish  to  go  to  Eleanor ;  she 
did  not  mean  to  exert  herself,  but  she  must  go.  And  Maude 
drew  back  coldly,  and  suffered  her  to  pass  from  the  room 
without  another  word. 


CHAPTER  XLIl. 

Eleanor  was  kneeling  by  her  bed,  her  face  bent  down  upon 
the  coverlid ;  an  open  letter  lay  on  the  ground ;  and  Blanche 
saw  that  it  was  from  Mrs.  Wentworth. 

"  Eleanor,  dearest,"  said  Blanche,  and  she  stooped  down  and 
kissed  her ;  and  Eleanor  rose,  and  pointing  to  the  letter, 
answered  with  a  bitter  calmness,  "  Judge  what  you  are  doing." 

lilanche  took  up  the  letter  ;  her  limbs  trembled,  and  she  sat 
down  to  read  it,  whilst  Eleanor  stood  by,  watching  the  changes 
that  passed  o\  or  h  ir  fiice. 

The  bold  legible  handwriting  was  the  transcript  of  Mrs. 
Wentworth's  mind  :  yet  lines  of  weakness  and  suffering  might 
be  traced  in  it ;  for  it  was  the  outpouring  of  a  mother's  uneasi- 
ness. The  letter  had  been  written  upon  the  day  on  which 
Charles  had  left  the  rectcry  for  the  avowed  purpose  of  transact- 
ing business  in  London.     What  business  no  one  knew,  or  could 


THE      EARl, 'S      DAUGHTER.  25' 

understand  ;  no  one  at  least  at  Rutlierford.  But  it  was  possiblt 
that  Eleanor  w;is  belter  informed,  and  her  mother  wrote  to 
request,  even  to  entreat,  that  if  she  could  throw  any  light  upon 
her  brother's  movements,  she  would,  in  pity  both  to  Dr.  Went- 
worth  and  herself,  do  so  without  fail. 

"  It  is  not  a  mere  wish  to  seek  out  all  that  Charles  does  and 
thinks,"  wrote  Mrs.  Wentworth,  "  which  makes  me  ask.  At 
his  age  there  may  be  subjects  upon  which  he  may  not  wish  to 
be  open ;  though,  strictly  speaking,  there  ought  to  be  none 
whicn  a  son  should  fear  to  confide  to  his  mother ;  but  I  would 
not  strain  the  point.  Only,  at  such  a  time,  to  have  mysteries 
and  concealments  ! — it  makes  my  heart  sink.  I  fear  lest  we  are 
mistaking  him ;  lest,  after  all  his  outward  professions  and  his 
real  improvement,  there  should  not  be  that  stability  of  character 
which  is  essential  to  the  right  performance  of  a  clergvman's 
duties.  Feeling,  I  am  quite  sure  he  has — the  very  strongest ; 
but  feeling  will  not  carry  him  safely  through  the  dangers  of  the 
world  ;  neither  is  it  a  sufficient  guarantee  for  the  performance 
of  his  ordination  vows.  I  am  very  unhap]iy,  perhaps  cause- 
lessly. Your  father  does  not  view  things  in  the  same  light. 
He  says,  we  ought  to  be  satisfied  with  Charles'  conduct  of  late ; 
for  that  he  has  done  all  that  could  possibly  be  required  to 
]>repare  himself  for  a  clergyman's  life  ;  and  that  he  is  certain  of 
his  conscientiousness.  I  w"ould  give  worlds  to  feel  the  same ; 
but  I  recollect  all  that  went  on  in  the  summer — that  folly  with 
Adelaide  Charlton  ;  and  I  foncy  that  perhaps  something  of  the 
same  kind  is  in  his  thoughts  now.  God  grant  my  fears  may  be 
groundless  !  I  scarcely  know  why  I  have  them  so  strongly  ; 
perhaps  it  is  from  the  very  fact  of  the  misery  the  reality  would 
cause  me.  It  would  be  the  destruction  of  the  one  day-dream 
which  has  cheered  me  amidst  all  the  trials  of  my  life.  I  have 
lived  upon  the  hope  of  seeing  Charles  a  clergyman,  in  heart  as 
well  as  in  profession.  If  this  is  not  to  be — if  he  is  to  be  luke- 
warm or  worldly — let  him  go  ;  let  him  choose  the  army,  the 
law,  a  merchant's  office — anything,  I  shall  never  live  to  see  the 
error  of  his  ways,  for  my  heart  will  break." 

Blanche  wae  about  to  refold  the  letter,  but  Eleanor  turned  to  the 
other  side,  and  pointed  to  the  postscript,  written  by  Dr.  Wentworth. 

"Your  mother  is  not  well ;  whicli,  I  think,  is  one  cause  of 
jier  worrying  herself  so  much  about  Charles.  She  had  a  slight 
uttack,  yesterday,  of  one  of  those  fits  which  she  was  subject  to 
vears  ago,  at  the  time  of  poor  Lady  Rutherford's  death.  1  liavt 
had    a  long  conversation  with  Mr.  Dawson  about  her  today. 


2r>H  THE      earl's      D  aught  KR. 

and  he  assures  me  there  is  nothing  to  aUinn  us,  but  tliat  she 
must  be  l\ei)t  quiet.  I  only  mention  this  in  order  that  you 
may  write  cheerfully  about  Charles.  As  to  his  London  busi- 
ness, no  young  man  likes  to  be  asked  the  reason  of  everything 
lie  does,  I  did  not  like  it  myself  when  I  was  his  age,  and  I 
bogged  your  mother  to  let  it  pass ;  but  she  would  question 
him,  and  then  made  herself  wretched  because  he  was  annoyed 
and  did  not  like  to  answer.  We  shall  expect  you  both  home 
together,  the  earliest  day  you  can  manage  to  come ;  only  give 
us  notice  beforehand.  You  will  hear  from  Charles  immediately, 
[  imagine." 

Wben  Blanche  had  finished,  and  given  the  letter  back  again 
into  Eleanor's  hands,  there  was  a  silence  of  some  moments. 
Each  dreaded  to  say  what  was  uppermost  in  her  thoughts. 

"  You  see,"  said  Eleanor,  at  length,  with  a  forced  quietness  of 
manner  ;  "  I  did  not  exaggerate." 

"  There  seems  no  cause  for  immediate  alarm,"  re])Iied 
Blanche,  feeling,  as  she  spoke,  that  her  words  were  cold. 

Eleanor  remarked  the  tone  directly,  and  exclaimed — "Oh, 
Blanche,  can  you  be  so  changed  ?  is  my  mother's  health — her 
life — of  no  value  to  you  ?  Do  you  not  know  that  it  was  sor- 
row for  your  mother,  and  anxiety  and  fixtigue  in  nursing  her, 
which  first  undermined  her  strength  ?" 

Tears  gathered  in  the  eyes  of  Blanche,  but  she  tried  to  check 
them,  as  she  answered,  "  I  know  you  do  not  mean  to  be  unkind, 
Eleanor.  You  would  not  willingly  make  me  wretched.  Try 
me  in  any  other  way  ;  tell  me  anything  else  that  I  can  do." 

"  Anything  except  the  one  thing  ;  the  one  only  favour  which 
Avill  save  my  mother's  life,"  exclaimed  Eleanor.  "Yes,"  she 
continued,  as  Blanche  shuddered  and  drew  back,  startled  at  the 
expression  ;  "  what  I  said  last  night  is  nothing  to  what  I  must 
say  to-day.  It  is  all  hastening  forward  so  rapidly :  in  another 
week  it  will  be  too  late  to  interpose.  I  have  heard  from 
Charles  myself;  he  is  in  London ;  he  does  not  venture  to  let 
me  know  his  plans  ;  but  he  writes  in  desperation.  lie  will  not 
see  that  mamma  is  unequal  to  bear  any  shock  ;  he  believes  that 
it  is  my  fancy.  His  present  life,  he  says,  is  wretchedness,  and 
he  knows  but  one  way  of  extricating  himself;  that  means,"  and 
Eleanor's  voice  shook,  "  that  he  will  marry  Adelaide  privately, 
and  break  my  mother's  heart." 

Blanche's  cheek  became  very  pale,  and  she  looked  faint  an;] 
exhausted;  but  she  said,  firmly,  "Any  sacrifice  but  that  of 
cuuscience.     Eleanor,  you  cannot  ask  that." 


THE    earl's    daughter.  259 

"I  know  it;  I  feel  how  hard  it  is,"  exclaimed  Eleanor, 
chanoing  her  tone,  "  When  we  were  listening  to  what  was 
said  at  luncheon,  I  felt  certain  of  the  effect  upon  your  mind. 
But,  Blanche,  when  Charles  has  done  an  act  of  which  he  will 
repent  for  his  whole  life ;  and  when  my  father's  happiness  is 
ruined,  and  mj^  mother  is — I  dare  not  say  what  she  may  be — 
it  is  paralysi^  with  which  she  is  threatened  :  when  all  this  has 
come,  will  it  never  cross  your  mind  with  regret,  that  one  word 
of  yours  might  have  prevented  it  ?  I  speak  my  deliberate 
opinion,"  she  added.  "  The  last  words  of  Charles'  letter  are : 
'  Give  me  but  the  hope  of  being  able  to  come  forward  honoura- 
bly and  openly,  before  another  three  months  have  passed  over 
TL.J  head,  and  I  will  be  contented  to  wait ;  if  not,  delay  is 
useless.' " 

Blanche  leant  her  head  upon  her  hand  to  hide  her  tears. 

"  My  answer  must  go  by  to-day's  post,"  said  Eleanor.  "  I 
have  left  my  letter  open,  waiting  for  yoxir  final  determination." 

"It  will  not  help  you,"  replied  Blanche,  in  an  accent  of 
great  suffering. 

"Yes,  indeed,  indeed,  it  will,"  exclaimed  Eleanor.  "Pray 
do  not  think  that ;  it  will,  at  the  leiist,  be  delay,  and  a  thou- 
sand things  may  happen  in  three  months  ;  the  engagement 
may  be  broken  off.  If  it  is  not,  still  Charles  will  have  taken 
orders,  and  my  mother  will  be  sjiared  the  shock  I  dread  for 
her.  Oh  !  -Blanche,  what  fearful  evil  you  have  it  in  your 
power  to  prevent !" 

A  message  from  Lord  Rutherford  interrupted  them.  He 
had  ordered  the  pony-chaise,  and  hoped  that  Lady  Blanche 
would  be  ready  to  go  with  him  in  ten  minutes'  time.  Eleanor 
received  the  message,  closed  the  door  again,  and  bolted  it ;  and 
going  up  to  Blanche,  said,  as  she  grasped  her  hand  in  the 
agony  of  entreaty,  "  Think  only  once  more.  If  I  do  not  write 
to-day,  he  will  come  down  ;  not  here,  but  to  the  neighbour- 
hood, lie  will  see  Adelaide,  an'd  it  will  be  all  over,  for  them 
and    for   me.     Not  for    my  mother,  but  for  myself  I  ask  it. 

Blanche,  it  has  been  my  own  doing,  and  the  consequences ," 

lier  voice  sank 'into  a  deep  whisper,  and  l^)lanche  caught  only 
the  words,  "Save  me ;  save  me  from  them." 

For  a  moment  Blanche  wavered.  Eleanor  pursued  her  ad- 
vantage ;  but  it  was  one  step  too  far.  "  Indeed  you  may  trust 
me,"  she  said  ;  "  all  that  I  have  told  you  is  truth.  Only  grant 
my  request,  and  everything  will  be  right.  If  nothing  should 
break  off  the  engagement,  Charles  a\  ill   be  quite  open,  and  Sii 


200  THE    earl's    daughtek. 

Hugh  will  support  him.  We  know  it ;  we  are  quite  certain  o1 
it,"  she  added  eagerly.  "  Pearson  has  told  Adelaide's  maid, 
who  is  obliged  to  be  a  little  in  the  secret,  that  Sir  Hugh  is  de- 
voted to  Charles." 

Blanche  started  from  her  seat.  It  seemed  as  if  a  veil  had 
been  suddenly  withdrawn  from  her  eyes.  "  I  will  leave  the 
affair  in  their  hands,"  she  said,  with  a  cold  quiet  dignity. 
"  Thank  you  for  letting  me  know  who  are  your  counsellors," 
She  walked  to  the  door  ;  but  her  gentle  nature  was  not  proof 
against  Eleanor's  look  of  despair,  and  once  more  returning  to 
her,  she  said,  "Eleanor,  you  have  tempted  me  very  far;  almost 
to  act  against  my  conscience.  I  trust  there  is  no  one  else  who 
would  have  led  me  in  the  same  way ;  but  let  me  tell  you  my 
true  opinion  of  this  business.  You  say  that  Adelaide's  maid  is 
obliged  to  be  in  your  secret.  Pearson,  of  course,  must  suspect 
it.  A  gossiping  girl  and  a  fawning  man-servant !  And  you 
are  forced  lo  entrust  to  their  discretion  facts  which  would  make 
your  mother  miserable,  and  my  aunt  indignant.  A  few  months 
ago  the  very  thought  of  such  a  thing  would  have  disgusted  you. 
I  am  sure  it  must  disgust  you  now.  I  do  not  wish  to  hear  how 
much  or  how  little  they  know ;  but,  for  myself,  I  would  rather 
give  up  rank  and  wealtli,  and  friends,  and  beg  my  bread  in  the 
streets,  than  suffer  my  name  to  be  mixed  up  with  a  clandestine 
engagement,  and  my  chai-acter  for  sincerity  and  delicacy,  and 
all  that  one  holds  most  dear,  to  be  at  the  mercy  of  my  ser- 
vants." 

"  And  if  it  is  too  late  to  retract  ?"  said  Eleanor. 

Blanche  paused.  "  It  cannot  be  too  late  to  amend,"  she  said, 
after  a  moment's  consideration.  "  I  do  not  see  how,  now,  and 
I  have  not  time  to  think ;  but  something  must  be  possible." 

Eleanor  shook  her  head.  "  One  way  there  is :  grant  my 
request,  and  you  may  impose  your  own  conditions." 

She  was  not  answered.  Blanche  turned  away  as  from  a 
temptation  which  she  dared  not  encounter  again. 


CIIAPTEPv  XLIII. 

If  Lord  Rutherford  had  seen  cause  for  anxiety  in  the  morn- 
ing, when  Blanche  sat  alone  with  him  in  his  study,  he  could 
scarcely  be  more  satisfied  when  she  came  to  him  prepared  for 
her  drive.     The  change  even  in  that  short  time  was  painfid : 


THE     EAHLS      DAUGIITEK.  261 

she  looked  quite  haggard ;  her  eyes  bore  the  traces  of  tears, 
raid  her  whole  manner  was  that  of  a  person  bowed  down  by  a 
weight  of  care.     The  earl  could  not  delude  himself  any  longer 
by  thinking  that  she  wjis  merely  languid  and  uncomfortable 
from  not  being  well ;  a  much  deeper  cause  there  must  be,  he 
was  certain,  for  such  strange  depression.    Or  was  there  no  cause  ? 
— nothing  but  indefinable  wretchedness — the  precursor  of  more 
lasting  misery  ? — and  swiftly,  in  a  moment,  his  thoughts  travel- 
led  back  through   the   long  lapse  of  yeai-s,  whilst  striving  to 
rem(?!nber  the  first  indication  which  had  struck  him  of  his  wife's 
morbid  temperament.     His  thoughts  made  him  silent  during 
the  short  drive ;  and  Blanche  was  only  too  willing  not  to  be 
obliged  to  exert  herself.     She  was  sorry  when  they  stopped  at 
the  lodge,  for  the  fresh  air  was  reviving ;  but  the  afternoons 
closed  in  quickly,  and  she  had  but  a  short  time  allowed  her. 
Lord  Rutherford  followed  her  into  the  cottage.     It  was  strangely 
natural  to  him  now  to  be  there  ;  he  who  had  once  never  entered 
the  house,  even  of  one  of  his  own  labourers,  except  when  busi- 
ness made  it  necessary,  was  now  a  recognised  and  welcome 
guest  in  the  sanded  kitchen,  where,  stretched  upon  a  low  pallet, 
lay  the  sick  child,  his  pale  face  flushed  with  pleasure,  and  his  little 
thin  hand  stretched  out  to  welcome  the  lady  whom  he  had  not 
seen  for  many  days.     The  earl  seated  himself  by  the  fire  ;  when 
Blanche  was  present  he  had  no  wish  except  to  watch  her,  and 
listen  to  he/,  ana  yield  himself  to  an  influence  so  different  from 
all  which  for  years  had  governed  him,  that  it  seemed  to  present 
to  him  a  new  phase  of  existence.     Yet  it  was  not  very  much 
that  Blanche  said.     She  was  shy  before  her  father,  and  the  dis- 
quietude of  her  mind  gave  her  a  tone  of  unusual  reserve.     But 
the  child  was  not  aware  of  any  difference  of  manner ;  he  only 
knew  that  some  one  was  near  him  who  was  kind  t(>  him,  and 
had  brought  him  toys  to  play  with,  and  pictures  ;  and,  with  the 
simplicity  and  openness  of  his  age,  he  made  his  remarks,  and 
called  for  her  attention,  until  insensibly  Blanche's  interest  was 
absorbed,  and  she  forgot  that  there  was  any  other  care  or  duty 
to  be  thought  of.     Then  she  talked  freely  and  cheerfully,  and 
the  boy  grew  more  and  more  happy  to  have  her  with  him  ;  and 
discovering,  by  a    natural  instinct,  where  his    wondering  and 
childish,    yet  reverent,  thoughts  would  meet  with  sympathy, 
^sked  questions  which  if,  at  times,  they  were  hard  to  jvnswer, 
yet  betokened  a  mind  strangely  beyond  his  years.     The  pictures, 
he  told  her,  he  liked  so  much — the  Scrij)ture  ones — those  which 
T-ere  about  peojile  being  made  well ;  and,  raising  his  eyes  to 


202  lUE    earl's    daughter. 

Blanche,  with  an  expression  of  great  awe,  lie  said,  as  he  laid  hih 
tiuger  upon  a  figure  representing  our  Lord,  "  It  must  have  been 
so  pleasant  to  be  with  Him  ;  lie  looks  so  kind."  Blanche  tried 
to  give  him  a  personal  feeling  of  gratitude  by  speaking  of  the 
blessings  which  had  been  granted  to  himself. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  there  were  a  great  many,  llis  mother  was 
good  to  him,  and  his  sister;  and  they  made  his  bed  comfortable 
\\hen  he  was  tired  :  but  he  knew  it  was  our  Saviour  who  lauglit 
them  to  do  it.  And  he  makes  you  come  and  see  me,"  he 
addi'd.     "  Do  you  like  to  come  ?" 

Blanche  could  scarcely  repress  a  smile  at  the  eagerness  with 
which  the  question  was  put ;  as  if  a  sudden  doubt  had  ciossed 
his  mind. 

"  I  like  it,  and  the  gentleman  likes  it  too,"  she  said,  looking 
towards  her  father.  "  It  was  he  who  went  to  Cobham  to  buy 
the  toys  for  you." 

The  child  iixed  his  eyes  upon  Lord  Rutherford,  with  a  half- 
timid  gratitude  which  he  dared  not  speak  ;  and  the  look  drew 
the  earl  from  his  seat  by  the  fire,  and  he  went  to  the  bed-side. 

"  Thank  you  !"  said  the  child,  fancying  that  he  had  come  to 
be  thanked.  "  Sissy  and  I  shall  jilay  with  them  by-and-by ; 
and  I  must  say,  '  Thank  you,'  to  our  Saviour  too  ;  mustn't  I  f 
he  added,  appealing  to  Blanche,  "  because  lie  told  him  to  do 
it ;  like  your  coming  to  see  me."  Then  taking  up  one  of  the 
prints,  he  held  it  before  the  earl,  asking  whether  he  would  not 
like  to  see  it — it  was  so  pretty.  "  That  is  a  little  boy  saying 
his  prayers,"  he  continued.  "  1  say  my  prayers  too,  when  I 
can ;  when  I  am  very  tired.  Sissy  says  them  for  me.  Do  you 
think  you  could  say  them  for  me  ?" 

"  I  dare  say  the  gentleman  could,  if  he  knew  what  to  say," 
interrupted  Blanche  quickly  :  "  or  1  m'ght,  if  you  liked  it.  But, 
I  suppose.  Sissy  says  your  prayers  for  you  at  night  before  you 
go  to  bed  V 

"  But  I  should  like  to  have  them  said  now.  I  should  like  to 
have  you  to  say  them ;"  and  the  wish  having  once  suggested 
itself,  the  child  grew  quite  excited,  his  cheek  flushed,  and  his 
breathing  became  quick.  "  You  would  say  them  better  than 
Sissy  ;  and  sometimes  she  looks  about ;  I  don't  like  her  to  look 
about." 

"People  should  be  quite  still  and  keep  their  eyes  shut,  or 
else  look  down  upon  their  books,  when  they  say  their  prayers," 
said  Blanche.  "1  dare  say  Sissy  will  when  she  grows  older. 
Does  she  ever  read  to  you  ?" 


THE     EARLS      DAUGHTER.  2(53 

"  Yes,  sometimes  ;  but  mother  reads  at  night,  about  tho 
beautiful  city.  That's  where  the  clergyman  says  I'm  going. 
Should  you  like  to  hear  about  it,  if  the  lady  reads  it  ?"  he  added, 
turning  to  Lord  Rutherford. 

"  The  lady  is  tired,"  answered  the  earl ;  "  don't  you  see  how 
white  she  is  ?" 

The  little  boy  gazed  at  Blanche  steadily,  and  after  a  few 
moments  of^thought  said,  with  .i  very  earnest  voice,  "Slie 
looks  like  me  when  mother  puts  the  glass  before  me.  Is  she 
going'lo  the  beautiful  cit^^,  too  ?" 

Lord  Paitherford's  countenance  changed.  He  caught  up 
Blanche's  cloak  from  a  chair,  and  wrapping  it  round  her 
observed  that  they  must  go. 

"  Then  you  can't  say  my  prayers  for  me  to-day  ?"  asked  the 
child  with  a  disappointed  air. 

Blanche  looked  at  her  father  entreatingly.  "  If  he  wishes  it 
so  much,"  she  said,  "  might  I  not  stay  five  minutes  ?  His  httle 
prayer  can  scarcely  take  so  long.  What  is  it  you  say, 
Johnnie?" 

"  '  Our  father  !'  and  '  I  pray  God  to  bless  mother  and  Sissy  ;' 
and  the  clergyman  taught  me  another,"  answered  the  child. 

"  And  if  I  were  to  say  '  Our  Father !'  for  you,  should  you 
like  it  ?" 

The  little  pale  face  brightened  with  pleasure,  and  Blanche, 
after  one  glajice  at  the  eail,  who  was  standing  passively  waiting 
her  will,  knelt  down.  There  was  a  moment's  pause ;  and  the 
child,  touching  Blanche's  arm,  asked,  "  Doesn't  the  gentleman 
say  his  prayers  too  ?" 

Blanche  made  no  answer,  she  repeated  the  prayer.  The  little 
boy  joining  in  it  with  his  hands  clasped  and  his  eyes  closed. 
When  it  was  ended,  and  she  rose  up,  Lord  Paitherford  wjis 
kneeling  by  her  side,  his  head  still  bowed  in  the  attitude  of 
devotion. 

"  And  now,  good  b'ye,"  said  Blanche,  gathering  her  cloak 
aroimd  her  and  preparing  to  go. 

The  child  kept  her  hand,  "Thank  you  for  saying  the  prayer, 
and  next  time  yrju  will  read  about  the  beautiful  city,  where  I'm 
going  ;  wont  you  ?" 

Blanche  kissed  his  forehead,  and  as  a  smile  passed  over  liis 
features,  he  whispered,  "  I  hope  you  will  come  soon,  fur  I  know 
you  will  be  ha[)pier."  They  were  his  parting  words.  Lord 
Rutherford  hurried  Blanche  into  the  pony-carriage,  and  seizinfj 
the  reins  drove  rapidly  homewards. 
12 


264  THE     earl's    daughter. 

Maude  met  tliem  at  the  hall-door,  fretted  apparently,  and  full 
of  business.  Scarcely  noticing  Blanche,  she  said  to  the  earl, 
"Mr.  Johnstone  has  been  here,  waiting  for  the  last  quarter  of  an 
hour ;  he  says  he  must  see  you  before  the  post  goes  out,  if 
possible." 

The  earl  looked  anxiouslj'  at  Blanche.  "  Take  care  of  her," 
he  said  to  Maude.  "  I  have  been  very  foolish — mad,  I  believe, 
— keeping  her  out  so  late,  till  she  is  half-dead.  Mr.  Johnstone 
wants  me,  did  you  say  ?  Oh !  yes,  I  remember,  about  the 
Whitfield  living." 

He  was  going,  but  Blanche's  voice  stopped  him.  "Papa, 
may  I  ask  ?  what  did  you  say  ?"  and  in  an  instant  the  colour 
had  mounted  to  h^  cheeks,  though  only  again  to  leave  them  of 
a  more  deadly  hue. 

"  The  living  of  Whitfield,  my  child ;  that  is  all :  nothing  to 
disturb  you.     Mr.  Johnstone  has  made  application  for  a  friend." 

"  A  friend !  what  friend — a  good  one  ?"  said  Blanche, 
hurriedly. 

"  A  good  one,  of  course.  Mr.  Johnstone,  every  one  says,  is 
to  be  depended  on.  But,  my  dear  love,  you  are  quite  excited : 
do  you  want  the  living  for  yourself?" 

Blanche  laughed  faintly:  her  knees  trembled  very  much,  and 
she  sat  down  on  one  of  the  hall-chairs.  Maude  scarcely  assisted 
hei-.  A  sudden  gravity  had  gathered  upon  her  face,  and  she 
folded  her  hands,  awaiting  what  was  next  to  be  done. 

"  We  must  have  your  maid,  my  love,"  said  the  earl.  "  She 
must  take  care  of  you,  and  you  must  lie  down  and  rest.  I  will 
ring  for  her  ;  and  then  I  must  go  to  I\Ir.  Johnstone." 

Blanche  still  detained  him.  Would  he  let  her  know — if  it 
was  not  wrong — if  she  might  be  told— would  it  all  be  settled 
to-day  about  the  living  ? 

A  strong  warning  grasp  was  laid  upon  her  arm,  as  Maude, 
stooping  down  under  pretence  of  picking  up  her  glove,  said, 
in  an  under  voice,  "  So  miserably  weak  ! — oh  !  Blanche  !" 

Blanche  started  ;  her  eye  caught  her  father's  full  of  strange 
sadness.  She  felt  quite  bewildered.  What  did  he  mean  ?  and 
what  did  Maude  mean  ?  Was  she  doing  anything  wrong  ? 
Were  they  vexed  with  her  ?  Did  they  know  her  secret  ?  She 
was  so  tired,  so  ill,  so  worn,  that  all  her  natural  strength  of 
mind  gave  way,  and  she  burst  into  tears. 

Maude's  manner  softened  a  little  ;  but  the  earl  spoke  sternly ; 
so  it  might  have  been  called,  but  for  an  involuntary  quivering  of 
his  lip.    lie  wished  her  to  go  to  his  study,  he  said  ;  it  was  quitti 


THE      EARLS      DAUGHTER.  205 

close,  and  it  would  be  the  best  place  for  ber,  and  Maude  min-lit 
beg  Mr.  Johnstone  to  wait.  There  was  time ;  if  there  was  not 
he  could  not  come  to  him ;  he  must  wait. 

Maude  lingered  for  a  moment,  apparently  seeking  for  one 
more  word  with  Blanche  ;  but  Lord  Rutherford  gave  her  no 
opportunity  for  it,  and,  opening  the  study  door,  led  Blanclie 
into  the  rooijj,  and  said,  with  the  quietness  of  great  self-contrt)l, 
"Blanche,  my  child,  we  are  alone;  now,  you  will  be  open  with 
me.  There  is  something  amiss.  If  it  is  a  wish  ungratilied, 
you  have  only  to  speak." 

Blanche  could  not  answer  him. 

Eleanor's  despairing  tones  of  entreaty  were  again  sounding  in 
her  ears ;  and  weak  though  it  was  to  waver,  it  was  agony  to 
resist. 

The  earl  waited  in  silence  for  a  few  seconds,  his  countenance 
showing  more  and  more  plainly  the  distress  of  his  mind.  "  You 
cannot  tear  I  shall  refuse,"  he  said  at  length,  almost  reproach- 
fully. "  Is  it  in  my  power  now  ?  Will  it  be  so  hereafter  ?  Can 
money  purchase  it,  or  time,  or  influence,  or  exertion  ?  Only,  in 
pity,  tell  me  !"^ 

Blanche  shook  her  head ;  she  tried  to  find  words  for  an 
answer — anything  to  satisfy  him ;  but  it  seemed  impossible. 

The  earl  withdrew  himself  from  her,  and  stood  moodily  by  the 
fire. 

"  I  do  not  doubt,  indeed,  papa,  that  you  would  give  me 
everything,"  said  Blanche,  forcing  herself  at  last  to  speak. 

"  Then  why  may  I  not  be  told  ?"  he  exclaimed,  quickly.  "  If 
it  is  a  request — " 

"  But  it  is  not ;  I  have  nothing  to  ask  ;  only,  if  I  knew  what 
was  right ;  if  I  could  be  quite — cpiite  sure." 

Lord  Rutherford's  impetuous  manner  was  subdued  ;  but 
there  was  far  greater  sadness  in  his  tone  than  before,  as  seating 
himself  on  the  sofa  beside  her,  and  drawing  her  towards  him, 
he  said,  "  My  poor,  poor  child  ;  is  there  no  peace  on  earth,  then, 
even  for  you  ?" 

"  If  I  could  be  quite  sure — quite  certain,"  repeated  Blanche. 

"  And  is  that  all  ?  Is  it  nothing  definite  ?"  asked  the  ea:l. 
lie  waited  breathlessly  for  the  answer,  and  at  that  moment  to 
have  been  told  that  Blanche  was  sutlering  under  the  burthen  of 
some  overpowering  calamity  would  have  been  a  relief  from  the 
foreboding  which  made  his  heart  sicken  with  dread.  But  again 
there  was  no  rest  for  his  fears ;  for  a  few  moments  of  recollection 
had  brou^rht  to  Blanche,  the  remembrance  that  she  had  no  right 


266  THE    eakl's    daughter. 

to  cawakon  suspicions  which  might  eventually  bttray  the  seer>.>t.4 
of  others,  and  she  was  silent. 

Lady  Charlton's  knock  was  just  then  heard  at  the  door. 
"  Mr.  Johnstone,"  she  said,  "  was  becoming  uneasy,"  and  she 
begged  Lord  liutherford  not  to  delay  seeing  him. 

As  she  spoke  she  glanced  .it  Blanche  in  surprise  and  some 
curiosity  ;  but  the  earl  scarcely  heeded  her.  His  whole  thought 
was  centred  in  IManche;  and,  as  soon  as  the  door  was  again 
closed,  he  said,  "  Then  there  is  something — a  wish — a  want  un- 
fultilled;  or  is  it  disappointment?  You  spoke  ol  it  once;  you 
said  that  the  world  was  dreary.  Oh  !  Blanche,  is  it  through 
me  that  it  is  so  ? — through  my  fault  ?  God  knows  it  may  be 
my  penalty." 

"Pupa  !  papa  !"  exclaimed  Blanche  ;  "  pray  do  not  speak  so 
or  think  so ;  it  is  not  through  you  ;  I  could  not  be  so  ungrateful." 

"  But  you  may  be  afraid  ;  your  wish  may  seem  a  difficult  one 
to  grant,"  continued  the  earl,  "yet  solemnly  and  sincerely,  I 
would  repeat  what  before  you  may  have  tliought  to  be  mei-e 
words.  As  the  one  only  atonement  which  I  can  make  for  the 
misery  of  your  unhappy  mother,  ask  what  you  will,  and  if  it  is 
in  the  power  of  human  effort  to  obtain  it,  it  shall  be  yours." 

Blanche  threw  her  arm  around  his  neck,  and  answered,  "I 
want  nothing." 

Again  they  were  interrupted.  The  door  was  hastily  opened 
by  Eleanor  Wentworth.  Agitation  and  excitement  were  visible 
in  her  countenance,  but  she  apologized  calmly.  She  had 
understood  Blanche  Wixs  by  herself,  and  she  was  wishing  to 
speak  with  her. 

Lord  Rutherford  was  leaving  the  room,  but  he  returned  to 
give  a  parting  kiss  to  Blanche,  and  whisper,  "  Remember  3-ou 
have  only  to  ask." 

He  was  gone,  and  Eleanor  and  Blanche  were  alone, 
llleanor's  errand  was  quickly  told.  This  was  her  last  effort — 
liei  last  moment  of  hope.  Blanche  listened  again  to  her 
l^rmer  arguments,  her  reiterated  miserable  entreaties.  They 
U'ere  more  plausible,  more  urgent  than  ever.  "  Ten  minutes 
more — only  ten,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the  timepiece,  "  and  it 
will  be  useless  to  ask.  Mr.  Johnstone  is  certain  to  carry  his 
point ;  he  is  to  write  by  this  day's  post.  Lady  Charlton  sup- 
ports him.  Lord  Rutherford  is  already  inclined  to  listen  to 
him.  Li  remembrance  of  all  our  happiness,  and  our  love  which 
was  to  last  for  ever,  Blanche,  have  pity  on  me." 

Blanche  was  lying  on  the  sofo,  without  the  power  oi  argu- 


TilE      EARLS      DAUGHTER.  261 

uicnt,  but  she  had  strength  to  say,  "  Leave  me  and  return  in 
live  minutes ;"  and  Eleanor,  seeing  a  ray  of  hope  in  this 
apparent  yielding,  left  her. 

They  were  live  minutes  of  intense  wretchedness ;  Blanche 
was  not  able  to  compose  her  mind  sufficiently  for  thought,  tlio 
consequences  of  her  decision  crowded  upon  her.  Misery  for 
Eleanor — despair  for  Mrs.  Wentworth — recklessness  and  folly 
for  Adelaide  and  Charles.  Even  the  ticking  of  the  clock  was 
distracting,  and  in  the  greatness  of  her  distress,  she  threw 
hersetf  upon  her  knees  and  prayed  for  certainty.  God  answers 
our  prayers,  but  not  as  we  expect. 

Eleanor  re-opened  the  door,  and  Blanche  started  up;  but, 
before  a  question  could  be  asked,  Lord  Rutherford  returned, 
accompanied  by  Mr.  Johnstone.  A  number  of  letters  were 
in  his  hand,  which  he  threw  upon  the  table,  with  an  exclama- 
tion of  fear,  lest  they  should  not  be  sealed  in  time  for  the  post. 

Eleanor  stopped  as  she  was  hurrying  away,  and  asked  if  she 
could  be  of  any  assistance  ?  Certainly,  if  she  would  be  kind 
enough,  it  would  be  a  great  help ;  and  Lord  Rutherford 
liii-hted  the  taper,  put  his  seal  into  her  hand,  and  then,  relieved 
from  a  tiresome  task,  turned  to  Blanche  and  said,  "  I  could 
scarcely  prevail  upon  Mr.  Johnstone  to  come  and  see  you,  he 
was  afraid  of  tiding  you  ;  but  I  insisted  upon  it.  You  kno 
his  business  ;  he  is  a  very  able  advocate,  and  I  think  I  cannot 
do  better  than  follow  his  opinion :  still  I  have  a  fancy, — it  has 
haunted  me  whilst  we  have  been  talking, — that  you  have  some 
wish  of  your  own  in  this  affair.  I  have  told  him  that  if  it  is  so, 
the  decision  must  rest  with  you." 

"  Is  this  letter  to  be  sealed  ?"  asked  Eleanor ;  the  direction 
was  in  Mr.  Johnstone's  handwriting. 

Mr.  Johnstone  smiled.  "  It  is  for  Lady  Blanche  to 
di'termine,"  he  said,  "  the  letter  is  to  my  friend  ;  it  contains  tho 
jmnnise  of  the  living.  I  could  not  have  asked  it  for  him 
if  I  hud  not  known  him  to  be  fitted  for  it.  Earnest,  energetic, 
humble-minded,  accustomed  to  the  necessities  of  a  large  manu- 
facturing population.  But  there  may  be  others  as  fitted,  and  I 
cannot  "believe  that  Lady  Blanche  would  wish  to  incur  the 
responsibility  of  entrusting  such  a  charge  to  one  who  was  not." 

A  pause  followed  ;  Eleanor  stooped  down,  and  pushed  a  foot- 
stool towards  Blancho,  and  whispered  "  My  mother." 

"  Speak,  my  child,"  said  Lord  Rutherford.  "Tell  us  if  you 
have  any  wish,  or  feeling  even  upon  this  matter.  Is  there  any 
oue  whom  you  have  over  desired  to  benefit  f 


2()8  THE    earl's    daughter. 

Blanche's  lioart  boat  so  quickly  tliat  her  breath  was  almost 
crone.  Lord  Kulherford  looked  alarmed,  he  rang  tho  bell  tor 
some  water.  The  servant  was  already  at  the  door,  he  was 
come  for  th^,  letters  for  the  post ;  Lord  liutherford  put  them 
into  his  liand,  all  but  the  one  unsealed.  Again  he  referred  to 
Blanche,  "Shall  I  seal  it?     Are  you  quite  sure?" 

Blanche  waited  for  one  moment  only  to  gather  strength  for 
tlie  effort,  and  then,  with  a  firm  voice,  said,  "  Yes,  quite  sure ; 
thank  you  for  asking,  but  I  have  no  wish  to  have  a  voice  in  the 
matter?' 

The  letter  was  sealed  and  sent.  Blanche  talked  quietly 
with  Mr.  Johnstone  for  a  few  minutes  upon  indifferent  suhje:;ts, 
and  then  went  to  her  room ;  but  no  one,  not  even  her  father, 
saw  her  a2;ain  that  evenins". 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

It  Avas  a  brilliant  spectacle,  when  the  long  suite  of  rooms 
and  the  great  hall  at  Senilhurst  were  lighted  up  in  celebration 
of  the  seventeenth  birthday  of  the  Lady  Blanche  Evelyn.  Many 
who  saw  it  kept  the  remembrance  of  it  as  a  scene  to  be  described 
to  their  children,  and  their  children's  children  after  them  ;  and 
some  few,  who  knew  the  circumstances  of  that  evening,  and  the 
events  which  followed,  recurred  to  it  with  melancholy  interest, 
to  marvel  at  the  mockery  of  human  happiness  and  the 
sti-ange  contrariety  that  so  often  exists  between  the  outward  and 
the  inward  phases  of  this  mortal  life. 

Yes,  it  was  a  brilliant  spectacle — "nnth  the  dazzling  lights 
shining  amidst  evergreen  leaves,  and  the  choicest  flowers  that 
art  could  force  from  nature,  wreathing  the  glasses  which  reflected 
on  all  sides  forms  of  elegance  and  beauty  ;  and  exquisitely 
sweet  were  the  strains  of  music  that  echoed  through  the  lofty 
apartments,  furnished  by  wealth  and  taste,  with  all  that  could 
minister  to  the  enjoyment  of  the  senses. 

The  seventeenth  birthday  of  Blanche  Evelyn!  they  who 
looked  upon  her  said  that  it  could  scarcely  be.  So  childlike  anJ 
simple  she  seemed,  so  unconscious  of  her  own  position,  so 
easy  and  unreserved  in  manner,  and  not  even  shrinking  from 
notice  because  she  was  unaware  of  attracting  it.  And  thev 
said  also  that  she  was  happy  ;  that  her  laugh  was  the  laugh  of 
a  light  heart,  that  the  flush  upon  her  cheek  was  caused  by  gay 


THE     EARL    S      DACGUTER.  2G9 

excitement,  and  that  her  occasional  restlessness  and  eafjern('ss 
were  the  natural  impulses  of  a  child  upon  her  lii-st  introduction 
into  society.  And  so  she  was  watched  and  criticised,  and 
mothers  coveted  her  grace,  and  daughters  envied  her  beautv, 
and  a  few  turned  to  mark  an  eye  which  was  following  her  with 
proud  delight,  and  shook  their  heads  and  sighed,  that  a  lather's 
hopes  should»be  centred  in  one  whose  very  loveliness  and  purity 
were  marked  with  the  tokens  of  an  early  grave. 

Sh^ll  we  look  upon  the  truth  ?  There  is  a  lesson  to  be  learnt 
in  the  most  delusive  scenes  of  the  world's  joyousness,  as  strik- 
ing, it  may  be,  as  in  the  closet  or  the  church. 

The  evening's  entertainment  was  just  beginning.  A  few 
early  guests  had  arrived,  and,  together  with  one  or  two  of  the 
visitoi"s  in  the  house,  were  assembled  with  Lady  Charlton  in  the 
drawing-room.  Conversation  was  rather  dull  ;  it  usually  is  so 
at  the  first  opening.  Lady  Charlton  found  it  difficult  to  avoid 
pauses,  and  heartily  \\'ished  for  further  arrivals  ;  and  the 
appearance  of  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey  and  her  two  daughters  was 
hailed  as  a  great  acquisition. 

Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey  looked  particularly  young  in  her  evening 
dress  ;  it  was  not  easy  to  believe  that  she  could  be  the  mother 
of  two  tall  girls,  and  the  consciousness  of  this  gave  her  a 
certain  vivacity  of  manner  which  was  just  then  particularly 
needed. 

'*  It  is  quke  pleasant  to  see  you  here,"  began  Lady  Charlton, 
addressing  her  ;  "  I  thought  this  afternoon  that  we  should  lose 
you  after  all." 

"  Not  willingly,"  was  the  reply  ;  "  you  know  where  my  incli- 
nations have  led  me  from  the  first.  Nothing  but  absolute 
necessity  would  have  taken  me  home  ;  besides  it  would  have 
been  unkind  to  Adelaide.  You  are  aware  we  have  really  deter- 
mined to  carry  her  off  with  us  to-night."  Lady  Charlton  did 
not  dissent,  in  words  at  least  ;  and  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey  went 
on  :  "  It  is  a  perfect  chai-ity  to  spare  her,  for  Agnes  and  I  are 
engaged  to  dine  and  sleep  at  Weston  on  Thursday  ;  and  Caro- 
line would  be  left  quite  alone." 

Lady  Charlfon  seemed  a  little  startled  at  this  announcement ; 
but,  before  she  had  time  to  speak,  Miss  Caroline  Grey  inter- 
posed :  "  You  know,  mamma,  it  is  not  altsolutely  certain  I  shall 
he  alone  ;  those  cousins  of  ours,  from  Wales,  are  coming  almost 
immediately.  They  may  come  to-morrow,  there  is  only  a  pos- 
iil>ility  of  my  being  alone." 

'•  .Still  it  is  a  possibility  one  should  be  glad  to  escape,  my 


2lO  THE    earl's    daughter. 

dear;    and  Lady  Charlton  is  very  kind   in  sparing  Adelaide 
Indeed,  I  cannot  say  how  obliged  I  am." 

Miss  Caroline  Grey  paid  but  little  attention  to  her  mother'a 
reniai'k.  She  was  seized  with  a  sudden  interest  in  Lady 
Blanche,  and  a  desire  to  learn  who  had  seen  her  lately,  ami  if 
it  was  quite  certain  that  she  would  be  well  enough  to  appear 
that  evening.  The  mention  of  Blanche's  name  caused  a  general 
interest,  and  Lady  Charlton  was  only  too  pleased  to  be  called 
upon  to  answer  the  many  inquii'ies  as  to  what  had  been  the  mat- 
ter ;  whether  she  was  strong,  whether  the  air  of  Senilhurst  agreed 
with  her,  and  if  she  was  likc-ly  to  remain  during  the  winter. 

Her  niece  had  been  ill,  she  said.  She  had  indeed  made  them 
all  a  little  anxious  ;  but  she  had  improved  very  much  since  the 
preceding  day,  and  had  insisted  iij^on  joining  the  party  that 
evening.  "  She  is  not  to  dance  much,  or  exert  herself,"  added 
Lady  Charlton,  turning  to  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey.  "  Her  doctor 
gave  special  orders  ui)on  that  point  ;  in  fact  I  suspect  if  he  had 
had  his  will,  she  would  have  kept  to  her  room,  but  she  had  set 
her  heart  upon  being  present.  Poor  child  !  very  natural  at  her 
age  ;  her  first  ball  and  in  her  own  honour !  and  she  would  not 
hear  of  its  being  postponed." 

Lord  Erlsmere  here  joined  the  party,  and  remarked  that  he 
had  just  met  Lady  Blanche  going  to  her  father's  study.  He  was 
quite  struck  with  her,  he  said,  she  had  such  an  unusual  colour, 
and  looked  so  much  better  than  when  he  last  saw  her. 

Lady  Charlton  was  engaged  with  some  more  guests,  and  Mrs, 
Cuthbert  Grey  whispered  to  Lord  Erlsmere,  "Ah  yes!  poor 
thing !  excitement,  all  excitement  ;  the  earl  sees  it  quite  plainly. 
He  has  been  wretched  alx)ut  her  the  last  two  days.  You  know 
how  she  has  shut  herself  up,  and  now  she  comes  out  quite  well, 
as  it  seems  ;  just  like  her  mother.  She  had  all  those  fancies. 
You  never  could  depend  upon  her  spirits  from  one  hour  to 
another." 

Lord  Erlsmere  looked  very  grave  ;  it  was  so  sad  a  prospect, 
he  said,  for  such  a  lovely  young  creature  ;  and  when  he  was 
with  her  he  could  never  believe  it  possible.  Her  mind  seemed 
so  peculiarly  well-disciplined,  her  temper  so  equable. 

''  Oh  !  but  they  are  not  symptoms  to  be  depended  on,"  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey.  "I  could  tell  you  things:  Agnes, 
my  love,  what  was  it  you  were  saying  to  me  about  poor  Lady 
Blanche,  just  now  f" 

"  Oh  !  nothing,  mamma,  nothing  ;  really  I  did  not  mean  to 
UiOntion  it  to  any  one,  except  yourself  ;  but  it  was  strange." 


THE      EARLS     DAUGHTER.  2Tl 

Lord  Erlsinere  could  not  avoid  a  little  curiositv. 

"  It  was  ^Yhat  her  maid  said,"  began  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grev. 

"  Oh  !  yes,  yes,  mamma,"  interrupted  Miss  Grey,  hastily. 
"  But  it  is  not  fair  to  repeat  such  things  to  Lord  Erlsmere ;  only 
her  maid  is  a  great  gossip,  and  told  our  maid  that  Lady  Blanche 
had  cried  incessantly  for  the  last  two  days,  and  that  she 
thought  there  was  some  fuss  between  her  and  Miss  Wentworth  ; 
for  tliat  Mis's' Wentworth  had  not  been  near  her  !  Poor  thing! 
1  dare  say  she  is  a  little  wayward." 

"  And  to-night  you  see  she  has  shaken  it  all  off,  and  comes 
forward  as  if  nothing  was  amiss,"  said  Mi-s.  Cuthbert  Grey. 
"  Well !  one  can  only  feel  for  her ;  but  I  am  glad  I  am  not 
Loid  Rutherford." 

Miss  Grey  touched  her  mother's  arm. 

Lord  Rutherford  had  just  come  into  the  room,  and  was  asking 
if  any  one  had  seen  Bhmche.  His  entrance  attracted  notice, 
but  he  was  not  aware  of  it.  To  one  or  two  persons  he  bowed 
distantly  and  mechanically,  but  his  eye  wandered  anxiously 
around ;  and  a  moment  afterwards  he  was  gone — to  his  study 
— there  Blanche  was  waiting  for  hira. 

A  father's  love  is  blind ;  yet  Lord  Rutherford  might  well 
have  been  pardoned  if,  as  he  looked  upon  Blanche  dressed  for 
that  evening's  entertainment,  he  deemed  her  faultless.  In  her 
simple  white  dress,  almost  without  ornament,  she  might  have 
moved  amongst  the  loveliest  and  the  most  splendidly  attired 
cf  her  rank  and  age ;  and  in  her  exquisite  grace,  her  perfect 
unconsciousness  of  beauty,  have  outshone  them  all.  The  earl 
could  not  praise  ;  he  could  not  even  say  that  he  was  satisfied. 
Admiration  was  not  the  idea  which  presented  itself  in  looking 
upon  Blanche.  But  he  im]irinted  a  kiss  upon  her  forehead, 
and  blessed  her ;  and  the  blessing  brought  a  thrill  of  untold 
delight  to  Blanche's  heart. 

''  I*  is  so  good  of  you,  my  child,"  he  said,  "  to  wait  for  me. 
I  thought  I  should  have  tired  you,  and  that  you  would  go  to 
the  drawing-room  without  me ;  but  I  was  kept.  Sir  Hugh 
took  a  fancy,  an  hour  ago,  about  some  of  the  arrangements,  and 
would  interfere  ;  and  your  aunt  was  quite  fretted  with  him. 
Ho,  in  pity  to  her,  I  carried  him  off  to  the  libra'-y  to  discuss  an 
old  quotation.  So  immensely  absurd  he  is  !  ]3ut  you  are  not 
doing  too  much,  I  trust ;  you  look  better  to-nig  it — a  great  deal 
bettf-r,  I  think." 

Blanche  said  she  did  feel  more  equal  to  the  effort  than  she 


2T2  THE    earl's    daughter. 

had  clone  all  clay  ;  and  her  father  did  not  remark  that  she 
avoided  saying  she  was  better. 

"  There  are  a  good  many  arrivals,"  continued  the  earl.  "  I 
looked  into  the  drawing-room  a  few  minutes  ago — your  aunt 
seemed  quite  in  her  element.  I  don't  know  any  person  who 
manages  a  thing  of  this  kind  better  than  she  does.  But  they 
are  all  expecting  you,  Blanche." 

"  Must  we  go  just  this  minute  ?"  she  asked.  "  It  is  very 
c^uiet  and  comKjrtable  here." 

lie  regarded  her  with  a  slight  uneasiness.  "  You  are  tired, 
my  love,  already.     It  is  too  much  for  you,  I  believe,  after  all." 

"No,  no,"  and  Blanche  roused  herself  from  the  languor 
which  was  stealing  over  her.  "  I  shall  do  quite  well,  indeed  ; 
but  I  thought  there  was  no  hurry,  and  I  wanted  to  stay  just  for 
a  few  moments  ;  I  was  hoping  to  hear — " 

"  What  ? — anything  I  can  ask  fur  you  ? — anything  I  can 
inq  jire  ? — let  me  go." 

"  Oh  !  no,"  said  Blanche,  with  a  half  smile ;  "  but  I  sent 
just  now  a  message  to  the  lodge.  Little  Johnnie  is  taken 
worse,  and  I  had  a  great  wish  to  know" — tears  started  to  her 
eyes,  but  she  added  cheerfully,  "  one  can't  help  being  interested 
about  him.*' 

Lord  Rutherford  made  no  rej)ly ;  but  he  drew  an  arm-chair 
towards  her,  and  Blanche  sat  down  by  the  fire,  and  lixed  her 
eyes  upon  the  bright  flames,  and  the  strange  caverns,  and 
hollows,  and  precipices  of  the  glowing  coals,  there  was  silence 
for  several  minutes.  Once  or  twice  Blanche  looked  round, 
thinking  the  door  was  opened  ;  but  no  one  came. 

"  I  hear  music,"  said  the  earl,  at  length  ;  "  they  are  impa- 
tient to  dance.  Are  you  sure  your  message  was  taken  to  the 
lodge?" 

"Barnes  promised  me  she  would  send  some  one  directly,'" 
replied  Blanche  ;  "  but  it  does  not  signify ;  I  can  go  ;"  and  she 
was  about  to  rise. 

"  We  can  wait,"  said  the  earl ;  "  only"— he  took  out  his 
watch — "I  think  we  really  must  go ;  it  will  look  so  strange." 

Some  one  came  to  the  door  and  tapped  gently. 

Lord  Rutherford  uttered  an  impatient  "Come  in;"  but  it 
was  not  a  servant  that  answered  him — it  was  Maude ;  very 
grave — very  stiff  and  cold  ;  and  dressed  in  a  manner  but  little 
in  accordance  with  the  gaiety  of  the  evening. 

"  They  are  wondering  what  is  become  of  you,  Blanche."  shy 


THE    earl's    daughter.  273 

said.  "  Mamma  sent  me  to  find  you.  She  bad  a  fancy  tliat 
you  were  not  well.  But  you  are  well — very  well,  I  declare, 
after  all.  Quite  a  colour  there  is  in  your  cheeks  ;  or  is  it  only 
that  you  have  been  burning  yourself  over  the  fire  ?" 

There  was  a  colour  in  Blanche's  cheek,  for  it  was  crimsoned 
with  the  conflicting  feelings  excited  by  Maude's  acctnt  of 
sarcasm. 

"  We  were  just  saying  that  it  w'ould  not  do  to  stay  here  any 
longer,"  said  Lord  Rutherford  ;  "  but  Blanche  had  a  ancy  to 
wait^till  she  could  hear  about  a  message  which  she  sent  to  the 
lodge  to  inquire  after  the  little  boy." 

"  They  can  bring  it  to  her  in  the  drawing-room,"  said  Maude; 
"  there  is  no  use  in  waiting  here,  and  the  dancing  cannot  begin 
without  Blanche." 

"  No,  no ;  thank  you,"  exclaimed  Blanche,  and  she  rose 
immediately.  "  I  would  much  rather  not  have  it  brought ;  it 
does  not  signify ;  at  least  I  would  rather  not  hear.  Indeed,  I 
would  rather  not,"  she  repeated,  as  Lord  Rutherford  was  going 
to  ring  the  bell. 

Maude  stood  by  coldly,  merely  saying,  that  every  one  was 
expecting  Blanche  ;  it  wjis  her  own  evening. 

"  Yes  ;  I  ought  to  have  been  in  the  room.  It  was  wrong  of 
me  to  wait,"  said  Blanche.     "  Papa,  I  am  quite  ready." 

She  trembled  as  she  stood  up  ;  and  he  observed  it,  and  laying 
Jiis  hand  upon  her's,  said  fondly,  "  You  are  nervous,  my  child  ; 
but  you  will  not  care  after  the  first  moment." 

Blanche  smiled,  and  opened  the  door.  A  full  burst  of  music 
sounded  from  the  great  hall ;  a  murmur  of  many  voices — 
laughter  and  conversation. 

''  Stop  !  here  is  your  messenger,  after  all,"  said  the  earl. 

A  servant  was  coming  hastily  along  the  passage. 

"  May  we  go  back  to  hear  it  ?"  asked  Blanche.  She  seemed 
really  agitated  now  ;  it  was  not  mere  nervousness. 

"  You  have  been  to  the  lodge.  Tell  us  quickly,"  said  the 
earl.     "  Lady  Blanche  is  anxious.     IIow  is  the  child  i" 

A  little  girl  of  about  twelve  years  of  age  stepped  foiward 
from  behind  the  servant,  and  came  close  up  to  Blanche.  "  I 
w;ls  to  tell  myself,"  she  said.  "  Johnnie  said  I  was,  lie  sent 
Lis  love  to  my  lady,  and  he's  gone — he's  gone  to  the^  beautiful 
city,  and  he  begs  her  to  come  soon."  And  bursting  into  tears, 
she  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

"Come,"  said  Maude,  drawing  Blanche  forwards.  "Poor 
child  I  we  cannot  hcli)  her."     Blanche  stood  still  fur  an  instant: 


274  TiiK    earl's    daucjiitkr. 

the  Iii;'lit  of  a  lamp  fell  full  upon  her  features  ;  they  were  of  ? 
deadly  paleness.  "  Come,"  a^ain  repeated  Maude,  authori- 
tatively. 

IManchc  started,  and  turned  to  look  for  her  father,  lie  was 
leaning  a<;ainst  the  wall,  at  a  little  distance,  with  his  arms 
folded.  Blanche  went  up  to  him,  and  said  gently,  "  Papa,  I 
am  ready  now ;"  but  he  did  not  answer,  onl}'  he  caught  her 
hand,  and  holding  it  for  an  instant,  looked  wildly  in  her  face; 
and  then  dropping  it  suddenly,  walked  back  to  the  study,  and 
closed  the  duor.  131anche  made  no  remark  ;  she  stooped  to 
caress  the  poor  little  girl,  who  iind  thrown  herself  upon  the 
floor  in  an  agony  of  grief,  and  in  a  tone  of  quiet  sympathy, 
spoke  a  few  words  of  comfort,  and  gave  an  order  that  the  ser- 
vant should  take  her  back  to  the  lou."",  and  said  she  hoped  to 
see  her  mother  the  following  day.  Toen  addressing  Maude, 
she  added  with  perfect  composure,  "  We  had  better  not  wait  for 
papa,"  and  putting  her  arm  within  her  cousin's,  went  with  her 
to  the  drawing-room. 

Again  there  was  a  crimson  flush  upon  Blanche's  cheek  ; 
again  her  eyes  shone  brightly,  and  the  silvery  tones  of  her 
voice  fell  with  cheerfulness  upon  the  ear.  The  evening  was 
wearing  on.  She  had  talked  and  danced,  even  laughed  and 
sang.  It  was  beautiful  to  watch  her ;  beautiful  and  inspiriting, 
except  when  occasionally  a  jiassing  word  seemed  to  jar  upon 
some  inward  chord,  and  then  for  a  moment  a  look  of  anguish 
flitted  across  her  lovely  face,  and  a  mist  seemed  to  gather  over 
her  eyes,  and  whether  it  were  in  the  dance,  or  in  conversation, 
a  sudden  vagueness  and  abstraction  would  come  upon  her,  and 
she  would  pause,  as  if  unknowing  where  she  was,  or  what  she 
was  saying,  till  recalled  by  a  gay  reproof,  or  a  glance  at  her 
father's  countenance.  For  Lord  Kutherford  was  "  himself  again  ;" 
whatever  might  have  been  the  rush  of  foreboding  excited  by 
that  untimely  message  from  the  bed  of  death,  it  was  gone  now  ; 
charmed  away  by  the  spell  of  his  child's  apparent  enjoyment,  and 
the  proud  happiness  of  beholding  the  admiration  she  inspired. 

"  Lord  Kutherf jrd  must  be  satisfied  now,"  said  Lord  Erls- 
mere  to  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Gre\'.  He  had  been  watching  Blanche 
for  some  time ;  longer  than  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey  approved. 

"  Yes ;  satisfied  for  to-night  at  least.  But  it  is  not  real ;  all 
that  cheerfulness,  I  mean,  which  poor  Lady  Blanche  puts  on. 
She  will  suffer  for  it  to-morrow." 

"  So  do  many  people  suffer  for  a  night's  excitement.  Ther(? 
v.'ill  be  nothino;  to  wonder  at  in  that." 


THi      EARL    S      DAUGHTER.  275 

"  Yes  ;  but  even  now  it  is  forced — evidently  forced.  I  have 
lived  longer  than  you;  and  I  have  seen  more — of  youn"-  ladies 
at  least.     Look,  now  ;  see  what  a  change  there  is." 

There  was  a  change,  certainly :  a  remarkable  one.  Blanche 
had  been  standing  at  the  lower  end  of  the  room,  talking  to  her 
partner.  Now  he  had  left  her,  and  there  were  several  people 
near  her,  but  no  one  especially  addressing  her.  Her  face  was 
turned  awa^^  but  Mrs.  Cutlibert  Grey  and  Lord  Erlsmere  caufiht 
a  side  view.  She  had  laid  her  hand  upon  some  one,  who  was 
stan^Mng  in  front  of  her,  and  was  speaking  with  an  eager  hag- 
gard look  of  entreaty,  which  seemed  to  have  changed  even  the 
outline  of  her  features. 

"  She  is  talking  to  Miss  Wentworth,"  said  Lord  Erlsmere. 
"  I  fancied  they  had  quarrelled." 

"  Yes ;  quarrelled  I  suspect  they  have ;  she  is  conscious  of 
it  probably,  and  trying  to  make  it  up.  Those  apparently  very 
sweet  tempers  are  not  much  to  be  depended  on." 

"  If  Lady  Blanche  Evelyn's  temper  is  not  sweet,  I  must  dis- 
trust the  evidence  of  my  senses  for  the  rest  of  my  life,"  said 
Lord  Erlsmere,  earnestly. 

Mi-s.  Cutlibert  Grey  smiled  expressively. 

"  The  quarrel  is  made  up  at  any  rate,"  said  Lord  Erlsmere, 
as  he  saw  Blanche  rise  and  walk  with  Eleanor  across  the  room. 

"  Or  reserved  for  a  more  private  explanation,"  observed  Mrs. 
Cuthbert  Gj-ey.  "  Miss  Wentworth  is  not,  I  suspect,  to  be  won 
over  so  easily." 

Lord  Erlsmere  did  not  pay  much  attention  to  this  remark — 
his  interest  was  attracted  by  Eleanor  and  Blanche,  and  to  Mrs. 
Outhbert  Grey's  discomfiture,  he  made  some  excuse  for  going 
away,  and  followed  them  through  the  door  by  which  they  had 
departed.  It  led  into  the  hall.  A  few  people  were  walking  uj: 
and  down,  taking  refreshments.  Adelaide  Charlton  and  Miss 
Carolira  Grey  amongst  them.  Eleanor  and  Blanche  were  pass- 
inof  them  just  as  Lord  Erlsmere  came  into  the  hall.  Adelaide 
tried  to  stop  Blancho,  and  said  something  ludicrous,  and 
Blanche's  face  for  a  moment  wore  an  expression  of  great  annoy- 
?nce;  but  she  went  on,  and  Adelaide  and  her  companion 
laughed  only  the  more  heartily.  Lord  Erlsmere  could  not  see 
more.  A  dance  had  jist  ended,  and  persons  were  crowding 
into  the  hall — some  to  refresh  themselves,  some  to  find  part- 
ners, and  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey  to  collect  her  party  and  prepare 
for  an  early  departure.     She  laid  siege  to  Lord  Erlsmere  again. 

It  was  growing  very  late,  she  said  ;  and  thev  had  a  kmg 


27G  THE    earl's    daughter. 

drive  before  them,  and  arrangements  to  make — packages,  and 
boxes,  and  numberless  tilings  to  collect;  it  was  such  an  unna 
tural  undertaking  to  leave  a  placo  where  you  had  been  sta3'ing, 
ill  the  middle  of  the  night.  Would  Lord  Erlsmere  try  and  find 
her  daughter,  Agnes  ? 

Lord  Erlsmere  could  not  but  be  most  happy ;  yet  he  delayed 
for  a  moment,  with  a  lingering  curiosity,  to  watch  what  had 
become  of  Eleanor  and  Blanche. 

"  You  lost  sight  of  your  two  friends  in  this  crowd,  I  imagine," 
said  Mi"s.  Cuthbert  Grey,  cleverly  reading  his  thoughts.  "  Peo- 
ple come  and  go  like  meteors.  Stay — there  are  Adelaioe  and 
Caroline  ;  do  bring  them  to  me." 

Lord  Erlsmere  crossed  the  hall,  and  delivered  his  summons. 
Adelaide  was  talking  lightly  with  one  of  her  partners  as  he 
came  up. 

"I  have  orders  from  Mrs.  Cuthbeit  Grey,"  began  Lord 
Erlsmere. 

"  Orders  ?  oh  !  yes,  to  go,  I  suppose — Caroline,"  and  she 
looked  round  for  her  friend. 

"  Can  I  be  of  any  service  ?  can  I  give  any  message,  or  find 
anything  for  you  ?"  asked  Lord  Erlsmere. 

"  No,  thank  you,  nothing ;  nothing  at  all.  "We  must  go  ; 
the  sooner  the  better,"  she  added,  with  an  accent  of  peculiar 
melancholy^almost  regret — which  Lord  Erlsmere,  unobservant 
though  he  usually  was,  could  not  help  remarking. 

"  You  are  to  be  absent  for  some  time,"  he  said.  "  I 
shall  scarcely  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  again,  I  am 
afraid." 

"  Thank  you,  no  ;  I  think — T  believe  I  am  going  for  some 
time.     Caroline, — where  is  she  ?" 

Lord  Erlsmere  offered  her  his  arm  to  lead  her  to  Mrs 
Cuthbert  Grey. 

"  But  mamma  and  papa ;  I  must  sec  them  ;  I  must  say  good 
bVe  to  them,"  said  Adelaide. 

"There  will  be  sufficient  time,"  replied  Lord  Erlsmere,  trying 
to  check  Adelaide's  haste  by  his  own  steady  pace.  "  The  car- 
riage is  not  ordered  yet ;  you  will  scarcely  get  away  for  the 
next  three-quarters  of  an  hour." 

Adelaide  sighed,  and  the  next  moment  burst  into  a  fit  of 
laughter,  declaring  that  she  was  so  fearfully  tired,  she  had 
nearly  lost  her  senses. 

"  You  are  not  the  only  tired  person,  I  imagine,"  said  Lord 
lirlsraere.     "  Your  cousin,  Lady  Blanche,  for  instance." 


THE      EARL     S      DAUGHTER.  211 

Adelaide  Coloured  crimson.  "Blanche!"  she  exclaimed' 
"  oh  !  yes,  Blanche  is  very  tired,  I  believe." 

"  She  looked  so  just  now,  when  I  saw  her,"  continued  Lord 
Erlsmere.  "  But  I  will  tell  her,  if  you  wish  to  see  her  before 
you  go  ?" 

"  Oh  !  no,  no,  thank  you  ;"  and  Adelaide's  manner  became 
even  more  impetuous.  "•  I  would  not  trouble  her  for  the  world. 
Besides,  she  is  with  Miss  Wentworth.  It  is  better  she  should 
be  with  her  ;  she  will  only  be  flurried." 

"  And  you  do  not  wish  to  see  her  ;  to  say  good  b'ye  ?"  said 
Lord  Erlsmere,  with  a  Uttle  curiosity  to  know  why  Blanche  was 
so  little  of  a  favourite. 

"  Thank  you,  I  don't  care ;  it  does  not  signify.  They  at-e 
talking  together  there,  I  believe,"  and  she  pointed  to  a  little 
room  which  had  been  occupied  by  some  of  the  attendants  dur- 
ing the  evening  ;  "  but  I  would  not  disturb  her.  Please  let 
me  go  to  mamma,"  and,  hurrying  from  the  hall,  she  threaded 
her  way  amidst  the  maze  of  guests,  and  through  various  rooms 
and  passages,  till  they  reached  the  drawing-room. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

The  little  waiting-room,  to  which  Eleanor  and  Blanche  had 
made  their  way,  was  quite  deserted.  It  had  been  used  merely 
as  a  temporar}-  convenience,  whilst  the  i-efreshments  were  handed 
ab<DUt,  and  there  was  no  fear  of  interruption  in  it.  But,  even 
if  there  had  been,  Blanche  was  not  in  a  state  of  mind  to  have 
much  thought  except  for  the  moment.  When  the  door  was 
seen  to  be  open,  and  the  room  empty,  she  entered  it  ;xs  a  place 
of  refuge  and  relief;  and,  regardless  of  Eleanor's  warning  that 
the  room  was  cold,  and  that  it  was  not  fitting  for  her  to  remain, 
exclaimed,  "  Now,  Eleanor,  let  me  hear." 

"  It  is  too  late,"  said  Eleanor,  moodily.  "  Yours  is  but  a 
mockery  of  sympathy." 

"  Pity — haVe  pity,"  said  Blanche,  and  she  looked  pleadingly 
in  Eleanor's  face. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  tell,"  continued  Eleanor  ;  "  at  least, 
nothing  but  what  you  may  well  guess.  AlU  thing-s  are  as  they 
were  ;  onl)-,  hastening  to  their  end." 

"  And  is  there  no  hope  2"   asked  Blanche.     "  lias  nothing 


278  THE    earl's    daughter. 

lifippened  these  two  long,  long  days  that  j'ou  have  kept  awaj 
from  nie  ?" 

"  You  are  unjust  in  your  reproaches,"  said  Eleanor.  "  What 
comfort  could  my  visit  have  been  ?  You  have  cast  off  sympa- 
thy, and  have  destroyed  the  happiness  of  those  as  dear  to  me  as 
my  own  life." 

"  Yes,  it  may  be,  it  may  be,"  said  Blanche,  in  an  accent  of 
utter  wretchedness.  "  I  know  you  have  a  right  to  be  angry  ; 
but  I  thought  you  would  not  go  on  being  so." 

"  It  will  make  but  little  difference  to  you,  I  imagine,  whether 
I  do  or  not, "  said  Eleanor  :  "  no  one  watching  you  this 
evening " 

"  And  are  you  too  deceived  ?"  interrupted  Blanche.  "  Then 
indeed  I  can  fict  well." 

"  There  is  no  cause  for  acting,"  said  Eleanor,  bitterly.  "  Lady 
Blanche  Evelyn,  beautiful,  prosperous,  wealthy,  without  a  single 
care, — nay  do  noi.  stop  me  ;  I  am  only  repeating  what  I  have 
heard  said  by  fifty  persons  this  night." 

"  But  you  shall  hear  me  for  myself,"  exclaimed  Blanche. 
"  Before  you  think  me  so  cold,  so  heartless,  you  shall  judge  me 
from  my  own  lips." 

"  My  own  eyes  will  be  the  better  judges,"  replied  Eleanor. 
"  Laughter  and  talking  and  dancing  are  sufficient  indications  of 
the  state  of  a  person's  mind." 

"  And  it  must  be  laughter  and  talking  and  dancing  to  the 
end,"  said  Blanche  ;  "  the  end,"  she  repeated  again,  thought- 
fully, "  which  may  soon  be  here."  Eleanor  looked  at  her  won- 
deringly,  and  a  feeling  of  returning  love  and  tenderness  stole 
over  her  as  she  saw  the  sunken  eye,  and  the  pale  cheek,  now  no 
longer  bright,  and  flushed  with  excitement  ;  but  marked  by  the 
undeniable  signs  of  great  mental  suffering.  "  Do  you  think  I  could 
be  here  to-^ight  ?"  said  Blanche,  "if  I  followed  but  my  own  will. 
With  so  great  a  weight  upon  my  mind,  could  it  be  my  wish  to 
join  in  such  a  scene,  even  though  it  is  in  my  own  honour?  But 
you  have  thought  for  youi  mother,  Eleanor  ;  and  I  have 
thought  for  my  father.  He  is  very  unhappy — very  anxious  ; 
God  knows  whether  there  is  cause,''  she  added  ;  her  voice 
becoirjing  almost  sepulchral  ;  "  but  I  have  felt  to-night  that 
there  might  be." 

"  lie  is  anxious  for  your  health,  I  know,"  said  Eleanor. 

"Not  for  my  henlth  of  body,"  rephed  Blanche  ;  "  but  there 
Is  another  fear.  He  thinks  I  am  like — my  mother."  She 
paused  for  a  moment,  and  continued  hurriedly  :  "  He  tries  k 


THE      EARLS      DAUGHTER.  2T0 

nide  it  ;  but  I  have  seen  it.  I  saw  it  the  other  day — that  day," 
and  she  gasped  for  breath,  "  when  we  were  together.  His  very 
eagerness  to  please  me — I  understand  it,  I  know  what  it  means'* 
and  he  shall  please  me  ;  I  will  be  happy.  If  I  am  not" — her 
voice  grew  faint — "  he  shall  never  have  the  misery  of  knowinir 
it." 

"  Blanche,"  said  Eleanor,  in  a  tone  of  alarm,  "  you  must  not 
let  yourself  be  excited  in  this  way  ;  it  will  do  you  a  great  deal 
of  harm.     After  all  you  may  be  fanciful." 

"  ]>o,  no,"  exclaimed  Blanche,  shuddering;  and  coming  up 
close  to  Eleanor,  she  added,  in  a  tone  of  quiet  despondency 
which  made  Eleanor  forget  for  the  moment  that  they  had  ever 
liad  a  word  of  difference,  "  he  told  me  so  himself,  yesterday. 
lie  came  to  my  room,  and  I  was  crying,  and  we  talked  toge- 
ther, and  I  made  him  own  it.  Oh,  Eleanor,  he  was  so  wretched 
and  so  kind — so  very,  very  kind." 

Eleanor  kissed  her  and  whispered,  "  Dearest,"  and  Blanche, 
with  the  tone  and  manner  of  a  weary  child,  laid  her  head  upon 
her  shoulder,  and  said  :  "  Let  me  be  miserable  with  you  ;  witli 
liira  I  must  always  seem  happy."  Several  persons  at  that 
moment  passed  the  door,  and  some  one  was  heard  to  inquire  fur 
Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey's  carriage.  Blanche  started  up.  "  We 
must  not  stay  here,"  she  said.  "  Only  tell  me  that  you  forgive, 
that  you  understand  me." 

"Yes,  I  will  forgive  ;  that  is,  I  will  try  to  think  you  meant 
rightly,"  said  Eleanor,  her  own  trial  returning  again  to  her 
recollection.  "But  you  cannot  go  on  in  this  way,  Blanche. 
No  mind  could  bear  the  constant  effort." 

Blanche  smiled  sweetly ;  but  very  sadly.  She  stood  for  a 
moment  thinking  silently,  and  then  her  thoughts  were  uttered 
aloud,  and  she  said  abruptly,  "  Johnnie  Foster  is  dead ;  did 
they  tell  you  of  it?"  Eleanor  looked  at  her  with  astonishment. 
"  Yes,  he  is  dead,"  repeated  Blanche,  in  the  same  dreamy  tone. 
"  Ue  sent  me  a  message ;  we  will  go  and  see  his  mother 
to-morrow." 

"Any  one  here?"  inquired  a  servant,  opening  the  door.  lie 
drew  back  and'  apologized.  He  was  looking  for  Mrs.  Cuthbert 
Grey's  maid.  She  was  wanted  particularly.  "  Mi-s.  Cuthbert 
Grey  is  going  then,"  said  Eleanor. 

"Yes,  immediately,"  wjis  the  reply:  "the  carriage  had 
been  ordered  a  long  time;"  and  the  servant  went  away. 
Eleanor  sank  into  a  chair  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 
Blanche  walked  up  and  down  the  room  in  great  agitation. 


280  THE     earl's    DATJGIITER. 

"  Fool  that  I  was  !"  exclaimed  Eleanor.  "  T  might  have  seer 
the  result  from  the  beginning." 

"  There  is  no  result  yet,"  said  Blanche,  in  a  voice  quite 
different  from  her  usual  tone. 

Eleanor  looked  up  sarcastically.  "  When  a  vessel  is  driven 
against  a  rock,  there  can  be  but  one  end." 

"  How  can  3-ou  be  sure  ?"  asked  Blanche. 

"  Uow  can  I  doubt,  rather  ?"  exclaimed  Eleanor,  with  some- 
thing of  indignation  in  her  manner.  "  When  Adelaide  Chari- 
ton takes  Caroline  Grey  into  her  secrets,  and  hides  them  from 
me ;  and  when  Charles  has  come  into  the  neighbourhood, 
desperate  and  full  of  wild  schemes ;  it  is  mockery  to  ask 
if  I  am  sure.     My  poor,  poor  mother  !" 

"  It  must  all  be  stopped,  it  must  be  prevented,"  exclaimed 
Blanche. 

And  Eleanor  answered,  bitterly  :  "  It  could  have  been." 

"  Lady  Charlton  ought  to  know,  at  least  she  ought  to  be  put 
on  her  guard,"  said  Blanche. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  tell,"  replied  Eleanor,  coolly ;  "  except 
the  engagement.  There  we  are  both  bound  in  honour  to  be 
silent." 

A  pause  ensued.  Eleanor  rose  to  go.  "  Stop,"  said  Blanche, 
detaining  her.  "  I  cannot  see  why  you  should  be  so  miserable 
to-night." 

"  Because  I  am  sure  there  is  mischief  plotting,  and  I  cannot 
discover  it.  But  it  must  come  ;  it  is  not  my  doing ;  no,  what- 
ever happens,  it  is  not  mine.  They  never  told  me.  Charles 
never  asked  my  advice.  They  have  taken  their  own  way,  and 
they  must  answer  for  it.  Oh  !  if  they  had  never,  never  met ! — 
if  I  had  never  sent  a  message,  never  encouraged  them  !  But  I 
did  not  think.  I  did  not  suppose  what  it  could  come  to.  My 
2;)Oor  mother !" 

Blanche  dared  not  speak.  Every  word  which  Eleanor 
utterec'  added  to  her  own  distress.  "  You  will  come  and  wish 
them  good  b'ye,  of  course,"  continued  Eleanor.  The  softness 
of  manner  which  had  stolen  over  her  whilst  attempting  to  com- 
fort Blanche's  grief  was  now  quite  gone. 

"  I  will  wish  papa  good  night  and  go  to  bed,"  said  Blanche ; 
"  no  one  will  miss  me." 

She  looked  extremely  ill,  and  Eleanor  offered  to  go  with  her. 
"  No,  you  will  be  wanted ;  you  had  better  find  out  Adelaide 
— or  Maude  ;  can't  Maude  help  you  ?  she  knows  something." 

"  She  knows  they  are  idiots,  and   she  thinks  us  hypocrito^^," 


THE      EARLS      DACJGHTER,  281 

?aid  Eleanor  ;  "  that  is  call.  For  your  comfort  she  believes  you 
the  worst  of  all." 

"  Me  ! — a  hypocrite  !"  and  Blanche  was  for  the  instant 
roused  from  unhappiness  to  indignation. 

"  She  has  heard  some  servants'  gossip,  and  thinks  you  are  in 
league  with  me  to  support  Charles,  and  make  him  propose  to 
Adelaide,"^aid  Eleanor ;  "  but  you  may  bear  that  share  of 
blame,  Blanche.  It  is  little  enough,  and  your  conscience  will 
tell  YOU.  you  have  not  helped  ns." 

Inis  last  sarcasm  was  the  overflowing  drop  in  poor  Blanche's 
cup  of  trial.  She  sat  quite  motionless,  in  a  kind  of  stupor. 
The  sound  of  carriage  wheels  had  been  heard  frequently  durinor 
the  conversation.  Music  was  still  going  on,  but  many  of  the 
guests  were  de^iarLing.  Lord  Rutherford  came  along  the 
passage,  and  Eleanor  heard  him  ask  whether  Lady  Blanche's 
maid  was  with  her,  "  He  thinks  you  are  gone  to  your  room," 
said  Eleanor  ;  "  it  is  the  best  place  for  you." 

Blanche  did  not  answer. 

"Perhaps  you  had  better  stay  here  for  a  few  minutes," 
pui-suc'd  Eleanor,  "  and  I  will  send  your  maid  to  you." 

Still  Blanche  remained  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy,  lean- 
ing back  in  her  chair,  and  her  hands  resting  helplessly  in  her 
lap. 

Eleanor  was  a  little  frightened.  She  thought  of  what  it 
would  be-  best  to  do,  and  supposing  Blanche  was  over- 
fatigued,  said,  "  I  will  go  and  find  Barnes,  and  wish  Ad^-laide 
good  b'ye,  and  then  I  will  come  back." 

Blanche  half  smiled  in  acquiescence,  and  Eleanor  was  satisfied 
and  left  her. 

Several  minutes  went  by,  and  Blanche  continued  in  the  same 
confused  state  of  wretchedness  and  exhaustion.  She  heard 
people  hurrying  to  and  fro,  and  voices  sounding  now  at  u  dis- 
tance, and  now  quite  near,  and  she  was  conscious  of  being 
alone,  where  no  one  would  think  of  finding  her ;  where  it 
would  be  considered  strange  that  she  should  be;  yet  she  h;id 
no  inclination  to  move.  At  length  the  medley  of  sounds  rather 
died  away,  the  music  in  the  dancing-rooms  ceased,  and  from  the 
frequent  repetition  of  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey's  name,  it  was  evident 
that  at  length  she  was  really  going.  Blanche  had  an  impulse 
to  say  good  b'ye  to  her  and  to  Adelaide ;  it  seemed  as  if  it 
would  be  kind  and  civil ;  and  she  had  a  thought — it  could  not 
be  called  a  hope,  it  was  so  vague — that  she  might  do  or  sa)' 
couiething,  or  discover  something  which  might  help  to  coniforl 


282  THE     earl's    daughter. 

Eleanor.  But  it  was  all  dreamy  and  misty,  and  when  sIig 
stood  up,  her  head  swam,  and  her  eyes  were  dim,  and  it  was 
an  effort  to  her  to  make  up  her  mind  what  she  was  to  do.  She 
remained  at  the  door  debating  with  herself  whether  it  would 
not  be  better  after  all  to  go  to  bed.  She  had  never  felt  so 
ill  and  strange  before,  but  there  were  persons  talking  in  the 
passage,  and  she  had  a  dread  of  meeting  any  one,  so  she  stood 
still  till  they  should  be  gone.  They  did  not,  however,  seem  in- 
clined to  go;  they  were  talking  rather  eagerly,  but  in  an  under- 
tone. They  might  be  Adelaide  and  Miss  Caroline  Grey,  for 
Blanche  caught  a  few  words  about  a  cloak,  and  mamma,  and 
looking  in  a  little  room,  and  then  something  else  was  said  about 
forgett'ulness,  and  one  of  them — the  voice  was  very  like  Ade- 
laide's— observed,  "  It  wont  do  to  be  forgetful  now ;  if  one  is 
careless  for  the  rest  of  one's  life.''  "  No,"  and  there  was  a 
laugh.  "  We  must  both  have  our  presence  of  mind  about  us 
certainly,  to-day  and  to-morrow,  and  then," — "Yes,  then," — 
a  sigh  followed. 

"  Nay,  you  must  not  begin  to  sigh  yet,"  was  the  rejoinder. 
"There  will  be  time  enough  fcr  that  when  the  mischief  is  done; 
but  really,  I  don't  think  there  is  the  least  cause  for  sighino-." 

Blanche  went  back  into  the  waiting-room,  for  she  felt  that  she 
had  better  not  hear  more.  Immediately  afterwards  Adelaide 
and  Caroline  looked  into  the  room,  glanced  round,  without 
seeing  Blanche,  who  was  behind  the  door,  and  seeing  no  trace 
of  the  missing  cloak  were  going  away. 

"  Miss  Adelaide  Charlton's  cloak  to-night,"  said  Caroline 
Grey,  in  a  half  whisper.  "  Mrs.  Charles  Wentworth's  on 
Thursday.  Fancy  how  absurd,  and  for  mamma  and  Agnes  to 
be  so  very  amiable, — to  leave  us  just  at  the  very  moment  we 
wish  to  be  left." 

Blanche  started,  almost  exclaimed,  and  stepped  forward  to 
show  herself ;  but  the  rustling  of  her  dress  alarmed  the  two 
friends,  and  they  rushed  away  laughing  nervously.  Blanche 
stood  motionless  ;  disgust  and  fear  struggling  in  her  breast. 
The  next  impulse  was  to  follow  Adelaide,  and  implore  her  to 
give  up  her  schemes.  Excitement  caused  a  inomentary  energy 
both  of  body  and  mind,  and  she  hurried  through  the  passage 
and  entered  the  hall,  which  was  empty.  There  she  paused  to 
consider  what  was  next  to  be  done,  for  she  heard  Adelaide's 
voice  in  an  adjoining  room,  where  several  people  were  talking. 
She  sat  down  on  a  bench. 

Eleanor  came  into  the  hall,  and  Blanche  beckoned  to  her  to 


THE      EAKL     S      DAUGHTER.  283 

3ome  uear,  and  said,  "  T  think  I  know  it  all  now.  They  have  a 
I>lan  for  to-morrow,  or  the  day  after,  when  Mi-s.  Cuthbert  Grey 
and  Agnes  will  be  out.     Can  that  be  possible  ?" 

Eleanor  turned  quite  white.  ''  Uow  did  you  know  it  ?  So 
soon  '     Yes,  it  may  be.     Oh  !  Blanche  !  Blanche  !" 

"  I  will  stop  it,"  said  Blanche,  in  a  hollow  voice. 

«  How  VI. 

"  I  will  see  Adelaide." 

"  But  she  is  gone." 

"  No,  not  gone  :  only  going. — Ilaik  !" 

"  Yes,  she  is  there  ;  but  there  is  uot  time  ;  and  she  is  wilful 
beyond  imagination." 

"  Then  my  aunt — " 

"  No,  no,  we  cannot ;  indeed,  we  cannot  betray  them." 

"  Good  b'ye,"  said  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey,  approaching  tha 
hall.  "The  carriage  is  at  the  side  entrance  below,  1  think  you 
said." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Lady  Charlton,  who  was  following  behind 
her  :  "  it  was  more  convenient  for  the  luggage.  You  will  uot 
mind  our  pjLssage'.,  I  hope ;  they  are  all  well  warmed." 

They  moved  on,  accompanied  by  Agnes  and  Caroline  Grey, 
and  Adelaide.  Two  or  three  gentlemen  were  with  them,  but 
not  Lord  Erlsmere. 

"  I   must  go  with  them,"  said  Eleanor.     "  Will  you  come 

too  r 

Blanche  made  a  faint  effort  to  move. 

"  No  ;  you  had  better  remain,"  continued  Eleanor,  watching 
her. 

But  Blanche  stood  u]i,  and  said,  "  I  will  speak  to  Adelaide." 

"  Now  ?    Impossible." 

"  But  I  must — I  must,"  repeated  Blanche,  vehemently.  "  If 
she  knows  that  I  know,  it  must  fiighten  her." 

"  Probably  it  might,  if  there  had  been  time  ;  but  it  is  too 
late,"  and  without  waiting  for  Blanche's  reply,  Eleanor  hastened 
to  fallow  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey. 

Blanche  delayed  for  an  instant  to  consider  ;  but  the  instant 
seemed  a  year.'  The  voices  and  footsteps  grew  fainter  along  the 
passages,  and  as  they  died  away  she  became  desperate,  and 
resolved  to  warn  Adelaide  at  all  hazards,  rushed  from  the  hall, 
as  fast  as  her  fuil=ng  strength  would  allow,  towards  the  side 
entrance. 

She  was  met  by  Lord  Erlsmere  at  the  to)i  of  the  staircase 
which  led  to  the  lower  part  of  the  house.     "  Lady  Blanche  !— 


281  THE      earl's      DAUGllTKR. 

Jiere  alone  !  1  thought  you  were  ill.  I  thought  you  had 
retired  long  since,"  he  exclaimed. 

Blanche  only  shook  her  head,  and,  without  an  answer,  would 
have  hurried  on.  The  light  of  a  lamp  fell  upon  her  features  ; 
their  expression  was  wild  and  ghastly,  and  Lord  Erlsmere, 
putting  himself  before  her,  said,  "  Excuse  me  ;  something  very 
much  is  the  matter :  you  are  ill." 

"  III  ?  yes,  very,"  and  Blanche  tried  to  pass  him,  saying, 
eagerly,  "  They  will  be  gone  ;  I  must  see  them  :  will  no  one 
toll  them  to  stop  ?" 

"  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey's  j^arty,  you  mean,"  said  Lord  Erlsmere, 
locking  at  her  steadily. 

"  Yes,  Adelaide ;  I  must  see  her  ;  I  must  go  to  her." 

"  But  not  by  yourself,  in  the  cold.  Pray,  wrap  a  shawl  round 
you,  or  let  me  take  a  message." 

"No;  I  must  go  myself — no  one  but  myself,"  exclaimed 
Blanche,  more  agitated  than  before.  "  There  is  not  a  moment 
to  lose." 

She  was  growing  very  faint,  and  Lord  Erlsmere  saw  that 
her  steps  tottered.  "  You  must  take  my  ai  m,"  he  said,  and 
Blanche  did  as  she  was  told,  for  she  could  scarcely  stand 
alone. 

"Come,  come,"  she  said,  and  she  tried  to  draw  him  forward; 
and,  as  she  spoke,  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey's  warning  flashed  upon 
his  mind  with  horror.  They  reached  the  foot  of  the  stairs  ; 
a  cold  draught  rushed  along  the  passage  from  the  side 
entrance. 

"Tliis  is  death  to  you,"  exclaimed  Lord  Erlsmere  ;  but 
Blanche  laughed  faintly,  and  said  in  a  strange  voice, 

"  J3id  you  hear  them  ?  they  are  there ;  they  are  not  gone." 

Lord  Erlsmere  stopped  at  an  open  door.  "  This  way,"  he 
said ;  "  this  is  the  best  way,"  and  Blanche  mechanically  fol- 
lowed him,  and  entered  a  small  room. 

"  You  must  wait  here,"  said  Lord  Erlsmere,  assuming  a  tone 
of  authority.     "  I  will  not  take  you  into  the  night  air," 

Blanche  sank  upon  a  chair,  and  clasping  her  hands,  exclaimed 
— "  Fetch  her  ;  fetch  Adelaide.  Beg  her  to  come.  God  grant 
she  may  listen." 

Lord  Erlsmere  paused,  irresolutely.  "  If  you  would  be  calm," 
he  began,  gravely ;  "  and  could  tell  me  your  message." 

"  Bring  her  to  me, — only  let  me  speak  to  her  ;  only  bring 
her.     Have  you  no  mercy  ?" 

Lord   Erlsmere   moved  slowly  to  the  door ;  opened  it  and 


THE     kaul's    daughter.  285 

listened.  There  was  a  confused  sound  of  voices ;  then  a 
momentary  lull,  and  then  the  quick  rattle  of  carriage  wheels. 

"  They  are  gone,"  said  Lord  Erlsmere,  quietly,  and  in  a  tone 
of  relief. 

A  fearful  change  passed  over  Blanche's  face,  and  as  blood 
gushed  from  her  mouth,  she  sank  down  apparently  lifeless. 


'  CHAPTER  XLVI. 

Two  days  after  the  ball !  It  was  growing  dusk  ;  the  bell 
had  been  rung  for  candles  in  the  drawing-room.  Lady  Charlton 
ran"-,  not  for  herself,  but  for  Sir  Hugh.  She  was  with  him 
alone.  All  the  visitors  were  gone.  Maude  was  sitting  in 
Blanche's  room,  whilst  Lord  Rutherford  was  trying  to  sleep. 
One  mi<>-ht  have  heard  every  footstep  in  the  house,  as  the  ser- 
vants moved  cautiously  through  the  long  passages  ;  their  slow 
tread  in  the  distance,  the  one  only  sound  disturbing  the  general 
stillness.  It  was  very  oppressive — very  deathlike ;  and  when 
tlie  footman  brought  a  small  lamp,  only  just  sufficient  for  Sir 
Hugh  at  his  table,  no  fault  was  found.  The  dim  light  at  the 
extremity  of  the  large  drawing-room  seemed  all  that  could  be 
needed  that  evening. 

"  Dr.  Lawson  gone  ?"  inquired  Sir  Hugh,  looking  up. 

"  Yes  ;  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago.    She  has  been  asleep  since." 

"  Asleep,  has  she  ?  she  will  do  very  well  then.  She  will  get 
over  it.  I  always  thought  so.  These  sudden  attacks  are  just 
hke  what  I  used  to  have  when  I  was  a  boy.  Much  more  dan- 
gerous indeed  mine  were.     I  used  to  lie  for  hours " 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  I  remember,"  began  Lady  Charlton. 

"  No,  my  dear,  begging  your  pardon,  you  can't  remember, 
for  you  did  not  know  me.   I  was  going  to  tell  you  about  them." 

"  You  had  better  not  move  to  your  own  room  before  dinner,  Sir 
Hugh,"  interrupted  Lady  Charlton.  "Let  Peai-son  settle  you  here, 
though,  certainly,  this  room  is  dreadfully  cold.  I  shall  go  up 
stairs,  and  see'how  things  are  going  on  there.  You  wanted  to 
read  this,  didn't  you  ?"  she  added,  opening  a  book  with  uncut 
leaves. 

Sir  Hugh  seized  it  eagerly  :  "  The  very  thing  !  AVhere  did 
it  come  from  ?" 

"Mr.  Johnstone  sent  it  yesterday  by  the  fly  which  took  Miss 
V/entworth  awav." 


28G  THE    earl's    daughter. 

"  Oh  !  yes,  to  be  sure.  Johnstone  and  I  were  to  ha^e  had  a 
discussion  upon  it  ;  and  Rutherford  too.  Poor  fellow  !  Well, 
I  sujipose  we  must  wait  ;  but  she  will  get  over  it ;  there  is  no 
question  about  it.  She  is  not  half  as  ill  as  I  was  ;  and  I  don't 
see  m3'self  why  every  one  should  have  left  us  in  such  a  hurry, 
Miss  VVentworth  especially.  A  very  fine  girl  she  is  ;  she  looked 
beautiful  tiie  other  night." 

"  Miss  AVentworth  went  of  her  own  accord,"  said  Lady 
Charlton  ;  muttering  in  an  undeitone,  as  she  walked  away, 
"  the  only  symptom  of  good  taste  I  have  seen  in  her." 

Sir  Hugh  finding  himself  without  a  listener,  betook  himself 
to  his  book,  and  soon  afterwards,  being  persuaded  by  the  dis- 
creet Pearson  that  the  library  was  the  best  place  for  him  en 
such  a  cold  evening,  retired,  and  left  the  drawing-room  fire  for 
his  wife  whenever  she  chose  to  return  to  it. 

Lady  Charlton  walked  up-stairs  quietly,  moved  quickly  along 
the  gallery,  opened  the  door  of  Blanche's  room  noiselessly,  but 
still  with  energy  ;  and  looking  around  her  as  she  entered,  saw 
at  one  glance  all  that  had  been  done,  or  was  wanting  to  be  done. 
It  was  little  enough,  but  it  was  sufficient  to  occupy  her  for 
several  minutes  in  giving  whispered  orders  to  the  maid,  and 
mute  suggestions  to  Maude  :  and  then  she  went  and  stood  by 
the  bedside,  and  looked  upon  Blanche's  pallid  face,  now  calmed 
by  the  half-repose  of  exhaustion.  She  was  not  a  person  in 
general  to  show  much  feeling  ;  sometimes,  it  was  said  that  she 
had  none  ;  but  this  was  an  injustice.  Perhaps  the  most  unself- 
ish of  all  her  affections  was  that  which  centred  in  her  niece, 
and  no  one  could  have  seen  Blanche  then,  and  thought  of  the 
intensity  of  happiness  or  misery  that  depended  upon  her  life, 
without  deep  emotion. 

Whilst  Lady  Charlton  was  still  in  the  room,  Lord  Rutherford 
came  in,  and  stood  by  her.  Tears  had  stolen  down  her  cheek, 
almost  unconsciously,  before  ;  but  now  she  took  her  handker- 
chief and  turned  her  face  to  the  light,  and  whispered  with  a 
look  of  sympathy,  "Poor  child  !  we  must  be  thankful  she  can 
sleep  Maude  tells  me  she  has  been  very  quiet  for  the  last 
hour." 

"  Yes,"  said  Lord  Rutherford,  shortly ;  and  he  moved  away 
without  even  going  to  look  at  Blanche,  and  sat  down  in  an  arm 
ehair  by  the  fire. 

Maude  left  her  seat,  and  pointed  to  her  mother  to  occupy  it ; 
but  Lady  Charlton  could  not  sit  and  watch,  except  at  night, 
when  she  was  exerting  herself  to  do  what  no  one  else  was  equal 


THE       EARL     8      DAUGHTER.  28T 

U).  Her  tears  were  gone  now,  and  she  was,  as  before,  full 
of  business,  obliged  to  go  and  see  about  a  hundred  things  ;  and 
after  another  compassionate  glance  at  Blanche,  she  whispered  to 
Maude  to  let  the  maid  take  her  place  when  she  came  down 
to  dinner,  and  departed. 

Lord  Rutherford  and  Maude  were  fit  company  for  each  other. 
They  had  .mo  wish  for  sym]iathy.  It  might  be  that  each 
felt  there  were  depths  of  suflering  which  no  comfort,  no  comfort 
at  k'^t  which  they  knew,  coula  reach.  Into  the  causes  of  a 
father's  grief  there  is  no  need  to  search.  They  who  have  loved 
as  Lord  Paitherford  loved — who  have  staked  their  last  hope  of 
happiness  upon  an  earthly  idol,  and  feel  that  they  may  Oe  about 
to  lose  it,  can  alone  tell  the  anguish  of  that  awful  suspense 
between  life  and  death  which  language  may  not  venture  to 
describe. 

But  Maude  had  no  life-long  interests  at  stake.  Whether 
Blanche  lived  or  died,  she  had  yet  home,  youth,  talents,  friends, 
and  many  of  the  allurements  of  the  world,  to  brighten  her 
prospect  of  the  future.  Yet  there  were  feelings,  selfish,  perhaps, 
in  some  respects,  but  bitter  and  uncontrollable,  which  made  the 
weary  hours  of  that  evening  so  desolate,  that  Maude  would 
almost  have  been  contented  to  exchange  them  tor  the  earl's  keen 
sorrow. 

There  is  excitement  in  some  griefe  ;  we  struggle  with  them 
manfully  ;  -the  world's  sympathy  is  with  us ;  and  we  either 
conquer  or  die.  There  is  hopeless  monotony  in  others,  and  we 
bear  them  day  after  day,  beneath  a  calm  exterior  ;  and  years  of 
endurance  go  by,  and  they  are  buried  with  us  in  our  graves,  and 
none  guess  the  secret  of  their  existence. 

Maude  had  never  experienced  a  bitter  grief;  her  natural 
temperament  was  not  open  to  it.  She  had  never  loved  deeply, 
for  she  was  slow  to  excite,  and  cautious,  and  criticising  even 
when  excited.  There  was  within  her  a  capacity  of  strong  aft'i'C- 
tion,  but  it  had  never  been  called  forth.  She  did  not  think 
now  that  Blanche  was  going  to  die,  but  if  she  had  thought  so. 
it  would  scarcely  have  made  her  more  desolate,  for  hei-s  was  the 
d.'solation  of  t!ie  mind  as  well  as  of  the  heart ;  the  feverish, 
] .arched  dryness  and  barrenness  of  a  spirit,  which  is  for  ever 
hinging  to  rest  upon  some  oasis  of  beauty  and  truth  in  the 
desert  "of  life,  and  when  it  thinks  that  it  has  found  the  object  of 
its  desires,  discovers  that  it  has  trusted  to  delusion.  Maude  had 
often  been  disappointed  before  she  knew  Blanche.  She  had 
often  imagined  perfection,  and  found  imperf.ctinii  ;  imagiii'.'d 
13 


288  THE     EARLS      DAUGUTER. 

truth,  and  discovered  falsehood  :  and  she  had  said  to  herself 
that  she  would  never  trust  again,  yet  she  had  trusted — uncon- 
sciously ;  she  had  watched  the  light  of  Blanche's  example,  until 
something  of  clearness  had  spread  itself  over  the  darkness  of 
her  own  mind  ;  and  the  path  of  duty,  and  the  way  of  truth, 
had  opened  themselves,  though  indistinctly,  before  her.  But  it 
was  all  dim  now,  all  gloomy  and  doubtful  as  before.  The  hghl 
had  been  extinguished,  for  the  thought  of  Blanche  was  mixed 
up  with  schemes  and  deceptions,  irresolution  and  inconsistency  ; 
and  Maude  could  better  have  borne  a  great  offence,  than  a 
weakness  which  diminished  her  reverence. 

What  Eleanor,  and  Adelaide,  and  Mr.  Wentworth  might  be 
doing  or  planning,  she  scarcely  considered  except  as  she  believed 
them  to  be  associated  with  Blanche.  It  was  for  her  that  she 
had  been  anxious  and  suspicious,  and  it  was  for  her  that  she 
now  grieved,  as  over  one  who  had  consented  to  take  part  in  con- 
duct unworthy  of  her  education  and  her  principles.  The  occur- 
rences of  the  last  few  days,  Blanche's  wretchedness  and  disquie- 
tude, her  uneasiness  respecting  the  disposal  of  the  living,  and 
the  reserve  she  had  strictly  maintained  as  to  the  cause  of  her 
distress  afterwards  ;  had  convinced  Maude  that,  in  some  way — 
how  she  did  not  know,  and  could  not  hiquire — Blanche  had, 
notwithstanding  the  warning  given  her,  fallen  into  the  snare  pre- 
pared for  her,  and  was  pledged  to  exert  her  influence  in  Mr. 
Wentworth's  favour.  More  than  this  she  did  not  guess,  but  it 
was  sufficient  to  make  her  feel  that  her  trust  in  Blanche's  stabi- 
lity of  character  was  at  an  end ;  and  to  throw  her  back  upon 
her  own  desponding  doubts,  whether  any  real  firmness  and 
goodness  were  to  be  found  on  earth:  and  now  she. sat  by  the 
fire,  in  the  dusky  twilight,  thinking  of  Blanche,  and  knowing  that 
she  was  very  ill,  and  that  even  if  she  recovered  this  present 
attack,  its  consequences  might  eventually  be  fatal,  yet  not  able 
to  rouse  herself  to  any  feeling  but  that  of  gloomy  depression  at 
her  own  dreariness  of  heart. 

It  was  a  time  when  a  person  of  a  different  character  might 
have  been  roused  to  exertion,  in  the  hope  of  putting  a  stop  to 
anything  amiss  as  regarded  Adelaide ;  but  Maude  was  a 
theorist.  From  the  height  of  her  philosophy  she  looked  down 
upon  Adelaide  and  Eleanor  with  contempt ;  and,  if  occasion 
required,  she  could  have  discoursed  eloquently  upon  the  indulged 
fiiults  which  led  to  the  conduct  she  condemned ;  but  it  was  not 
in  her  way  to  interfere  with  what  she  called  other  people's 
affairs,  unless,  as  in  the  case  of  Blanche,  urged  by  some  peculiar 


THE      EARLS     DAUGHTER.  289 

personal  interest.  Silly  persons  would  be  silly,  she  knew,  in  spite 
of  all  she  could  say  or  do,  and  it  was  one  of  her  favourite,  com- 
forting sayings,  that  the  world  must  go  its  own  way,  and  she 
must  go  hers;  and  in  this  spirit  of  inditFerentism,  she  abstained 
from  inquiring  minutely  into  what  was  passing  about  her ;  con- 
tented with  knowing  that  it  was  folly,  and  therefore  beneath  her 
notice.  BaU  we  cannot  thus  cut  ourselves  off  from  our  fellow- 
creatures  ;  the  members  of  one  family  especiallj^  cannot  do  so. 
By  tlje  inevitable  decree  of  Providence,  the  sin  of  one  will  be  felt 
in  its  punishment  by  the  others  ;  and  woe  be  to  us,  if,  whilst  evil 
is  working  around  us,  we  passively  fold  our  hands  and  close  our 
eyes,  and  say,  it  does  not  concern  us. 

There  was  one  fact,  however,  which  gave  Maude  great  relief — 
Eleanor  Wentworth  was  gone.  She  had  left  Senilhurst  to 
return  to  Mr.  Johnstone's,  the  previous  day,  upon  the  pretext  of 
fearing  to  be  in  the  way  when  every  one  was  so  anxious  about 
Blanche.  Maude  smiled  to  herself  at  the  apparent  coldness  of 
heart  which  could  allow  her  to  go  at  such  a  moment ;  but  she 
w;is  only  too  well  pleased  to  be  saved  from  the  annoyance  of  her 
presence;  and  poor  Eleanor  departed  with  a  weight  upon  her 
heart,  which  Maude,  proud  and  unsympathizing  though  she  was, 
could  scarcely  have  forborne  to  pity,  if  she  had  known  it. 

Lord  Rutherford  and  Maude  sat  together  for  nearly  half  an 
hour  without  speaking  or  moving.  Then  Blanche  roused  herself 
and  seemed-a  little  refreshed  ;  but  it  was  an  effort  to  her  to  say 
anything.  Maude  took  out  her  watch  and  pointed  to  the  hour- 
hand,  and  observed  to  Lord  Rutherford  that  it  was  dinner-time. 

"  Is  it  ?"  was  the  answer. 

"  Yes ;  I  will  send  Barnes  to  take  our  place."  She  waited  for 
him  to  assent,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  hear  her,  and  she  could 
not  speak  to  him  again.  There  was  something  in  his  f;ice  which 
repelled  her.  Maude  looked  round  to  see  that  everything  was 
comfortable ;  she  was  a  good  nurse ;  continued  ill  health  had 
taught  her  what  illness  requires ;  but  perhaps  she  was  a  little 
fidgety  ;  at  least  Lord  Rutherford  seemed  to  think  so,  for  his  eye 
followed  her  impatiently,  as  she  went  about  the  room. 

" Then  Barnes  will  come,"  she  \cntured  to  say,  as  she  was 
going  away. 

"  I  will  send  for  her  when  I  want  her,"  was  liis  reply ;  ho 
followed  her  to  the  door,  closed  it  behind  her,  and  returned  to 
stand  by  Blanche's  bed.  Their  eyes  met,  but  his  were  turned 
away  in  an  instant ;  she  was  lying  uncomfortably,  and  he  raised 
htr,  and  placed  her  pillows  right,  and  smoothed   the  coverlid, 


290  THE    earl's    daughter. 

and  moved  the  lamp ;  and  afterwards  poured  out  her  medicine 
slowly,  lingering  over  the  action,  and  doing  everything  with  a 
curious  precision.  When  it  was  all  finished,  he  brought  his 
chair  near  to  sit  down,  but  that  was  a  great  eftbrt,  and  he  could 
not  bear  it ;  and  leaning  his  head  against  the  side  of  the  bed, 
he  cried. 

Barnes  looked  into  the  room  to  know  if  he  was  coming  down 
t«)  dinner. 

"  No,"  he  answered,  at  first ;  but  Blanche  made  a  little  move- 
ment with  her  hand,  as  if  begging  him  to  go.  He  stooped 
down  and  kissed  her,  and  said  he  would  rather  not,  he  was  better 
with  her. 

But  she  whispered,  "  Please,"  and  her  soft  eyes  were  fixed  on 
Iiim  entreatingly ;  and  submissively,  without  another  word,  he 
went  down-stairs. 

They  were  but  a  small  gloomy  party  in  the  large  dining- 
room;  Sir  Hugh  prosed,  and  Lady  Charlton  found  fault;  and 
Maude  wrapped  a  shawl  round  her,  and  complained  bitterly  of 
the  cold ;  and  the  solemn  men-servants  moved  round  and  round 
the  table,  offering  dishes  which  scarcely  any  one,  but  Sir  Hugh, 
tasted.  Lord  Rutherford  ate  nothing,  though  he  took  care  to 
place  enough  ou  his  plate  to  avoid  the  notice  of  Sir  Hugh,  who 
not  only  made  a  point  of  eating  a  good  dinner  himself,  but  con- 
sidered it  incumbent  ou  his  guests,  as  a  matter  of  civility,  to  do 
the  same. 

"  T  am  glad  to  hear  your  patient  is  improving,"  he  said  to 
Lord  Rutherford,  as  the  interval  between  the  first  and  second 
courses  allowed  him  to  turn  his  attention  to  something  besides 
fish  and  soup.  "  I  have  no  doubt  myself  that  it  will  all  come 
right,  and  I  have  had  a  good  deal  of  experience  in  such  matters. 
The  feet  is,  young  people  will  be  imprudent.  We  ought  to 
have  shut  her  up  the  night  of  the  party." 

"  I  urged  it,"  said  Lady  Charlton,  with  some  bitterness,  "  but 
no  one  would  listen  to  me.  Some  people  are  destined  to  be 
Cassandras." 

"  Blanche  came  down  stairs  because  she  was  told  she  might," 
said  Lord  Rutherford.  The  tone  made  even  Sir  Hugh  feel  that 
the  subject  had  better  be  dropped.  He  turned  to  another  part 
of  the  same  topic — to  introduce  a  new  one  was  not  easy. 

He  had  been  trying,  he  said,  to  reckon  the  numbers  of  the 
party  exactly;  but  he  was  puzzled.  Lady  Charlton  had  f>r- 
gotten  to  give  him  the  answere  to  the  invitations.  Would  Lord 
Rutherford  help  him  to  recollect? 


THE    eaul's    daughter.  291 

The  earl  groaned  audibly ;  and  Maude  came  to  his  relief  auo 
paid,  "  They  might  make  a  Hst  after  dinner." 

"  We  were  one  gentleman  short,"  said  Sir  Huu:h ;  "  it  was 
very  provoking.  1  meant  to  have  had  a  secret — a  surprise  ; 
nothing  so  pleasant,  on  these  occasions,  as  a  surprise." 

Lady  Charlton  drew  herself  up,  and  her  eyes  sparkled  ;  but 
she  managejl  to  say  very  gently,  that  she  was  not  tbnd  of 
secrets  in  general,  and  she  supposed  this  could  not  be  a  very 
important  one. 

"  Why  not  ? — my  dear  ? — why  not  ? — why  am  I  not  to  have 
important  secrets  ;  or  rather,  who  has  ever  had  so  many  as 
myself  ?  When  the  late  premier — he  was  my  great  fi-iend — 
you  remember,"  added  Sir  Hugh,  appealing  to  Lord  Ruther- 
ford ;  "  when  the  late  premier  came" — a  dish  was  placed  before 
Sir  Hugh — and  the  late  premier  was  deferred  for  the  moment. 

"  We  shall  hear  from  Adelaide  to-morrow,  I  suppose,"  said 
Lady  Charlton,  hoj)ing  to  get  the  conversation,  if  such  it  could 
be  called,  into  her  own  hands.  "  I  shall  be  glad  to  hear  what 
she  is  doing  at  Oakfield.     A  first  visit  is  always  rather  a  trial." 

"  They  must  make  up  a  very  pleasant  society  at  Oaktield," 
observed  Sir  Hugh.  "  I  don't  know  anywhere  a  more  agree- 
able, sensible  woman,  than  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey ;  and  very  tine 
girls  her  daughters  are.  They,  and  their  neighbours  the  John- 
stones,  and  Mr.  Wentworth" — he  paused  and  looked  round  him 
significantly. 

"  Miss  Wentworth,  you  mean,"  said  Maude, 

"  No,  my  dear,  excuse  me  ;  I  know  my  own  words — Mr. 
Wentworth.  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Johnstone, 
and  Miss  and  Mr.  Wentworth  will  form  a  very  agreeable 
society." 

Maude  involuntarily  glanced  at  her  mother.  Lady  Charl- 
ton's lips  turned  very  white.  She  poured  out  a  glass  of  water, 
and  drank  it  quickly.     No  one  spoke  for  some  moments. 

Then  Lady  Charlton  said  slowly,  "  You  did  not  think  it 
necessary  to  tell  me  that  Mr.  Wentworth  was  to  be  in  tho 
neighbourhood." 

"  No,  my  dear ;  no  certainly,  Frances,  my  love,"  began  Sir 
Hugh,  in  a  frightened  tone,  and  his  eyes  glanced  up  and  down 
quickly  from  his  plate  to  his  wife's  face.  "A  little  secret — 
nothing  but  a  little  secret — every  one  likes  a  little  secret. 
Johnstone  told  me  the  other  day,  that  young  Wentworth  was 
coming,  before  very  long,  to  fetch  his  sister  home ;  and  I  gave 
lIui — -that  is,  I  said  if  Iw  happened — if  he  should  just  chance 


292  THE     earl's    daughter. 

to  arrive  before  the  29tli,  lie  was  to  send  him  over.  A  }oun<:> 
mail  is  always  an  acqiiij^ition — -always  welcome  on  such  occa- 
sions. In  fact,"  and  growing  bolder  as  he  went  on,  his  tone 
became  rather  that  of  defiance,  "  in  fact,  it  was  my  wish — I 
thought  it  a  comjiliment  due  ;  old  friends  you  know,  and  his 
sister  here,  and  in  fact — in  fact ;  but  he  did  not  come,  my  dear, 
So  there  is  no  harm  done." 

"  It  is  not  a  matter  of  much  consequence,  I  suppose,"  said 
Lord  Rutherford,  drily,  and  not  raising  his  eyes  to  see  the 
expression  of  the  different  faces.  In  that  he  was  very  unlike 
Lady  Charlton.  She  could  see  in  all  directions,  one  might 
almost  say,  at  once.  Now,  she  saw  opposite  to  her  the  twink- 
ling intelligent  eyes  of  one  of  the  servants  ;  the  effect  was  that 
she  replied,  with  an  air  of  nonchalance,  "  Of  course  not.  The 
coming  or  going  of  a  young  man  hke  Mr.  Wentworth  can  be  of 
no  consequence  to  any  one." 

It  was  provoking  and  humiliating  to  see  the  footman  bite  his 
lips  to  suppress  a  smile.  Lady  Charlton  could  have  found  it  in 
her  heart  to  order  him  out  of  the  room. 

"  Hark  !  there  is  a  ring  at  the  bell,"  said  Lord  Rutherfoi-d. 
"  It  must  be  Dr.  Lawson  come  again."  He  pushed  aside  his 
plate,  and,  without  the  thought  of  an  apology,  hurried  away. 

"  It  is  not  Dr.  Lawson,"  observed  Maude.  "  He  said  he 
should  not  be  here  till  to-morrow." 

''  Some  parcel  or  message  from  Cobham,  I  suppose,"  remarked 
Lady  Charlton.  "  I  wonder  people  can't  find  their  way  to  the 
side  entrance." 

"  I  'nteud  to  make  a  fuss  about  it,  my  dear,"  said  Sir  Hugh. 
"  !*•  is  a  great  deal  too  bad— an  infringement  upon  private 
rights.  I  shad  take  some  steps  the  very  first  opportunity. 
You  may  depend  upon  it,  my  dear,  it  shall  be  prevented.  Let 
the  Cobham  people  know,"  he  added,  speaking  to  the  servant, 
"  that  if  they  continue  to  come  to  the  hall  door,  I  will — I  will — - 
I  vow  I  will  see  what  can  be  done  to  prevent  them." 

"  It  was  not  from  Cobham,  Sir  Hugh,"  said  the  footman, 
respectfully,  yet  with  a  very  meaning  curl  of  the  lip.  "  I  heard 
the  horse  come  up  the  other  road." 

Lord  Rutherford  returned,  hurried  and  disappointed.  There 
was  no  Dr.  Lawson,  but  some  message  ;  he  did  not  know  what. 
He  sat  down  again  at  the  table.  A  silence  of  expectation 
followed. 

"  They  aie  a  long  time  bring-ing  the  message,"  said  Lady 
Charlton.     "  Foster,  go  and  see  what  is  the  reason." 


THE     earl's     daughtek.  20^5 

Foster  went  to  the  door,  and  as  he  opened  it  received  a  note, 
just  come,  brouiijht  from  Oakfield. 

"  From  Oaktield  ?"  said  Lady  Charlton,  a  little  anxiously. 
"  So  late  1     Nothing  amiss,  I  hope." 

The  note  was  taken  to  Maude.  It  was  strange — generally 
self-possessed  as  she  was — her  hand  quite  trembled  when  sho 
took  it  up.^ 

"  To  ask  how  Blanche  is,  I  suppose,"  said  Lady  Charlton. 
"  I  dare  say  they  were  anxious,  and  did  not  like  to  wait  till 
to-morrow." 

The  seal  was  broken.  Lady  Charlton  looked  at  the  envelope. 
The  feelings  of  a  mother,  usually  so  dormant  within  her,  were 
awakened  by  a  vague  foreboding.  "  That  idle  child  ;  how 
badly  she  writes  !     What  does  she  say  of  herself,  Maude  ?" 

Maude  looked  up  wildly. 

"  What  does  she  say  of  herself,  Maude  ?     What  is  it  ?" 

Still  no  answer. 

Lady  Charlton  caught  the  note  from  her  daughter's  hand. 

Maude  started.     "  Mamma,  pray  wait  one  moment." 

It  was  too.  late.  Lady  Charlton's  eye  had  fallen  upon  the 
signature — Adelaide  Wentworth,  and  she  sank  back  almost 
unconscious. 

Maude  tossed  the  note  to  Sir  Hugh,  motioned  the  servants 
from  the  room,  and  turning  to  Loid  Rutherford,  said,  as  she 
went  to  her  mother's  assistance,  "  She  is  married  I  She  is 
Adelaide  Wentworth  !     God  forgive  her  1" 

Sir  Hugh  held  the  note  in  his  hand,  vainly  trying  to  read  it. 
"Adelaide  what,  my  dear?  Adelaide  who?  What  is  the 
matter  ?     W^hat  has  happened  ?" 

"  Let  me  go  to  him,"  said  Maude  to  Lord  Rutherford,  giving 
a  glass  of  water  into  his  hand.  "  Mamma  will  be  better  in  a 
minute.  It  is  a  note  from  Adelaide,  sir,"  she  said,  speaking  to 
Sir  Hugh  ;  "  she  has  been  doing  extremely  wrong.  She  ouglit 
to  be  ashamed  of  hereelf." 

"  But  what  has  she  been  doing  ?  What  does  she  mean  ? 
Why  does  she  call  herself  Adelaide  Wentworth  ?  Read  the 
note  :  let  me  hear  it." 

"  It  is  very  short,  and  I  can't  make  it  all  out,"  replied  Maude, 
muttering  to  herself.  "  She  thinks  I  shall  help  her.  Intense, 
jnutterable  folly!  The  note  is  not  worth  reading,"  she  said 
aloud  ;  "  but  she  is  married,  sir— that  is  what  it  is  ;  married  to 
Mr.  Wentworth.     She  is  Mrs.  Wentworth." 

Sir  Hugh  caught  up  the  note  again,  raised  himself  with  dilh 


294  THE    earl's    daughter, 

culty  from  his  chair,  drew  the  lamp  towards  him,  and  begar, 
stuiiibHiig  throui^h  it : — 

"  M}^  dear  Maude, — I  write  in  immense  haste.  You  will  be 
shocked  of  course  ;  but  there  was  nothins^  else  to  be  done,  and 
no  good  in  delay.  You  will  break  it  to  mamma.  Papa,  I  hope 
and  believe,  will  feel  with  me.  You  must  try  and  undersUmd 
this,  for  we  trust  to  you  to  help  us.  We  were  married  this 
morning,  and  are  just  starting  for  London.  Make  mamma  for 
give  me,  or  I  shall  be  miserable. 

"  Yours  afTectionately, 

"Adelaide  Wentwortii." 

Sii  Ilugh  threw  the  note  from  him,  with  a  fearful  exclama 
tion  of  anger.  "  Feel  with  them  !  I  feel  with  them  !  Runa- 
ways !  outcasts !  Young  Wentworth  !  Scoundrel !  They  shall 
never  darken  these  doors — never !  They  shall  never  have  a 
farthing  from  me.  Write  to  them,  Maude,  and  tell  them.  1 
feel  with  them,  indeed  I  I  vow  your  mother  was  right.  Impu- 
dent scamp  !  my  son-in-law  !  marry  my  daughter  1  inarry  into 
our  family  !  and  that  woman  !  that  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey  !" 

Maude  had  returned  to  her  mother,  who  was  slowly  recover- 
ing ;  but  as  she  heard  the  last  words,  she  picked  up  the  note 
from  the  floor,  and  showing  the  postscript,  said,  "  Mrs.  Cuthbert 
Grey  is  not  to  blame  ;  that  is  her  writing.  '  I  cannot  attempt 
to  comfort  or  excuse  now  :  only  believe  that  it  was  entirely  with- 
out ray  knowledge. — A.  G.'  I  believe  that,"  continued  Maude, 
speaking  to  Lord  Rutherford.  "For  example's  sake  she  would 
have  beer,  ashamed  ;  but  some  one  must  have  known  it." 

•  The  pleasant  details  will  come  to-morrow,"  re])lied  the  earl. 
"  It  is  a  perfect  mystery  to  me  ;  I  can't  believe  it !" 

"  Poor  mamma  can't  believe  it  either,"  said  Maude,  as  Lady 
Charlton  opened  her  eyes,  and  looked  round  her  inquiringly. 

Sir  Hugh  managed  to  hobble  to  the  other  side  of  the  table. 
"Take  her  to  bed,"  he  said,  almost  tenderly.  "There  is  no 
])lace  like  bed  ;  let  her  go  to  sleep.  Poor  thing !  poor  thing ! 
It  is  a  horrid  blow — most  unexpected.  Ring  for  some  one, 
Maude,  to  help  her  up-stairs ;"  adding,  as  he  bent  down  and 
actually  kissed  her,  "  we  will  talk  of  it  to-morrow,  my  dear ;  but 
you  had  better  go  to  bed.  I  shall  write  to  them,  and  tell  thera 
they  need  not  expect  anything  from  me." 

"  Yes ;  my  own  room.  Let  me  go,  Maude,"  said  Lady 
Charlton,  faintly  ;  and,  whilst  the  bitterness  of  returning  recol- 


THE      EARL    S      DAUGHTER.  205 

lection  rushed  upon  her  as  a  flood,  yet  striving  to  keep  up  a 
proud  composure.  "  Only  let  me  never  hear  her  name  a-^ain ; 
she  has  dissfraced  it." 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 


A  SAD  and  trying  week  went  by  at  Senilhurst.  Every  one 
kno\fs  that  the  first  moment  of  a  great  shock  is  not  the  worst  ; 
and  the  blow  inflicted  by  Adelaide  Charlton's  marriage  was  no 
exception  to  the  rule.  It  was  not  indeed  one  of  those  events 
which  could  be  justly  called  a  misfortune,  by  persons  who 
reo"arded  it  in  a  worldly  point  of  view.  Mr.  Wentwonh  was  a 
gentleman  by  birth  and  education,  and  if  he  had  no  money 
himself,  Sir  Hugh  was  quite  rich  enough  to  assist  him.  He 
was  also  a  person  of  unstained  reputation,  and,  except  in  this 
one  act  of  his  marriage,  of  supposed  high  principle.  Adelaide 
mi<Tht  undoubtedly  have  done  worse.  After  all  her  levity  and 
flirting,  she  might  consider  herself  fortunate  in  not  having  been 
led  into  a  much  more  undesirable  engagement.  This  was  what 
the  world  said  ;  and,  in  consequence,  it  gave  Lady  Charlton  but 
a  small  portion  of  commiseration.  But  Lady  Charlton  herself 
did  not  view  the  subject  in  the  same  light.  Her  pride  was 
wounded  ;  .and  not  in  one  point  only.  Family  and  fortune  were 
inestimable  advantages  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  and  for  them 
she  would  have  sacrificed  her  daughter's  happiness,  and  thought 
she  was  but  consulting  her  best  interests.  But  character,  pro- 
priety'— that  indescribable  delicacy  and  dignity  which  act  as  a 
shield  from  public  remark — were  scarcely  less  precious,  because 
they  were  valued  by  those  whose  good  opinion  she  was  always 
seekino- — the  wise  and  good.  It  was  their  censure  which  Lady 
CharUon  had  dreaded  when  Adelaide  flirted,  and  it  was  their 
censure  which  she  feared  now.  A  daughter's  fault  must  in  a 
measure  recoil  upon  the  mother  who  has  had  the  charge  of  her 
education  ;  and  bitterly,  now  did  she  rej)ent  the  carelessness 
and  blindness' which  had  induced  her  to  bring  Adelaide  very 
early  into  societv,  and  give  her  almost  unchecked  freedom  of 
thouglit  and  action.  But  it  was  for  herself  that  Lady  Charlton 
repented,  not  for  her  daughter.  It  was  for  the  loss  of  her  own 
position — her  character  as  an  excellent  adviser,  and  a  sensible 
guardian  and  friend.  No  one  would  henceforth  appeal  to  her 
as   a   person   Avhose  cleverness,  and  judgmi'iit,   and  cxiieri.'uce 


296  THE     earl's    dajghier. 

gave  value  to  liei-  opinion  upon  education.  One  who  liac 
evidently  made  some  great  mistake  in  the  training  of  her  own 
child  could  not  be  competent  to  counsel  othei*s.  Lady  Charlton 
felt  lowered.  That  is  a  feeling  hard  to  bear — insupportable, 
exce])t  when  we  can  carry  it  in  humility  to  our  Maker,  and  own 
it  as  our  just  meed  and  punishment.  Lady  Charlton  could  not 
do  this.  She  struggled  against  it,  and  resolved  to  conquer  it. 
No  one  should  say  that  deception  and  imprudence,  and  the 
absence  of  womanly  dignity,  were  sanctioned  by  Lady  Charlton. 
As  Adelaide's  conduct  was  the  subject  of  general  remark,  so 
also  should  be  her  mother's  displeasure.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Charles 
AVentvvorth  might  go  their  own  way,  and  follow  their  own 
Course  ;  but  they  should  not  be  admitted  at  Senilhurst.  And 
Lady  Charlton,  as  she  made  the  determination,  smiled  scornfully, 
in  the  conscious  stateliness  of  virtuous  indignation. 

The  worst  was  over  then  ;  since,  for  once,  almost  the  first 
time  since  their  marriage.  Sir  Ilugh  and  herself  were  agreed. 

Both  Adelaide  and  Charles  had  made  a  great  mistake  in 
supposing  that  Sir  Hugh  would  sujiport  their  cause  against  all 
opposition,  if  once  thev  were  married.  Sir  Hugh  was  a  vain 
man ;  vain  persons  will  do  anything  to  assist  those  who  choose 
to  consult  and  flatter  them,  but  they  will  almost  infallibly  turn 
against  those  who  choose  to  act  without  them.  Sir  Hugh's 
vanity  was  as  much  piqued  by  Mr.  Wentworth's  neglect  as  Lady 
Charlton's  pride  was  by  Adelaide's  imprudence,  and  the  morti- 
fication found  its  solace  in  the  same  revenge. 

A  short  note  was  sent  to  Adelaide,  telling  her  that  since  she 
had  chosen  a  companion  for  life,  for  herself,  she  must,  for  the 
future,  look  to  him,  and  to  him  alone  ;  as  her  parents  did  not 
feel  it  consistent  with  their  sense  of  right  to  sanction  her  con- 
duct by  receiving  her  at  Senilhurst;  and  then.  Sir  Hugh  and 
Lady  Charlton  felt  themselves  at  liberty  to  announce  their  sen- 
timents publicly,  and  hold  themselves  up  to  admiration,  as 
martyrs  to  the  cause  of  filial  obedience  and  propriety. 

All  this  appeared  very  inconsistent  to  Maude  ;  and  was  of 
very  little  consequence  to  Lord  Rutherford.  In  the  eyes  of 
Maude,  Adelaide's  foolish  marriage  was  but  the  natural  end  of 
her  previous  foolish  conduct.  After  the  first  moment,  she 
almost  wondered  at  hei"self  for  being  startled  at  it.  It  was 
extremely  wrong  ;  disobedient  and  selfish  ;  but,  to  her  own  know> 
ledge,  Adelaide  had  never  been  taught  to  be  anything  else. 
Her  principles  were  the  principles  of  the  world  ;  and  Maud  a 
keen-sighted  and  cool-judging,  had  long  since  discovered  tha(    • 


THE     EARL    S      DAUGHTER.  297 

was  in  these  they  had  both  been  nurtured  from  infancy.  Lady 
Charlton  might  talk,  and  seemingly  act  religiously  ;  she  might 
praise  daily  services,  give  money  to  build  churches,  teach  in 
parish  schools,  cultivate  the  acquaintance  of  men  distinguished 
for  learning  and  piety ;  but  the  stamp  of  the  world  wjis 
upon  all. 

Lady  Charlton  hked  popularity ;  Adelaide  hked  admiration. 
Lady  Charlton  talked  gravely,  and  believed  she  should  be 
thought  serious-minded ;  and  Adelaide  laughed  and  chattered, 
and'supposed  she  should  be  considere*!  clever.  Lady  Charlton 
put  a  cross  upon  her  praj'er-book,  because  it  was  the  fashion ; 
Adelaide  put  an  ornament  upon  her  dress  from  the  same  mo- 
tive. Lady  Charlton  went  to  church  ;  Adelaide  went  to  balls. 
Lady  Charlton  liked  the  occupation,  and  the  attendant  excite- 
ments, and  the  food  for  conversation,  and  the  consciousness  of 
being  noticed  ;  Adelaide  liked  the  same. 

Where  was  the  diflference  between  them  ?  Maude  could  not 
see  it.  She  thought  her  mother  harsh,  and  she  said  so ;  and, 
in  return,  received  a  lecture  upon  female  decorum,  which,  to  a 
person  whose  oflences  were  entirely  on  the  side  of  stiffness, 
coldness,  and  fastidious  reserve,  became  almost  an  absurdity. 

A  gulf,  wider  than  evei-,  was  opened  between  Maude  and  her 
parents  ;  and,  unhappily,  the  sultject  of  difference  could  not  be 
avoided.  It  was  brought  forward  daily,  by  letters,  visits,  and 
su'i^gestioiis,  and  all  that  marvellous  want  of  taste  which  neigh- 
bours and  acquaintances  so  often  show  in  their  strained  efforts 
to  be  sympathetic. 

"The  ple-^sant  details  of  the  marriage,"  as  Lord  Rutherford 
had  termed  them,  came  in  due  time  ;  certainly  exculpating 
Mi-s.  Cuthbert  Grey  from  any  share  in  the  plan,  but  throwing 
great  blame  upon  one  of  her  daughters.  It  was  Miss  Caroline 
Grey,  who  had  entered  into  the  scheme  and  furthered  it ;  and 
had  actually  been  present  at  the  marriage.  Of  course  her  mo- 
ther was  duly  shocked  and  distressed ;  but  no  regret  could  undo 
the  past.  The  intimacy  oetween  the  two  families  must  inevitably 
be  stopped  for  the  future  ;  and  Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey's  excuses  and 
a'X)lo'ifies  were  received  and  dismissed  coldly,  and  with  an 
>penly  avowed  satisfaction  on  the  part  of  Lady  Charlton,  as  she 
spoke  to  Maude  of  the  obstacle  which  woukl,  in  consequence, 
be  interposed  to  the  designs  upon  Lord  Erlsmere,  with  whom 
Mrs.  Cuthbert  Grey  had  no  acquaintance  except  through  theii 
meetings  at  Scnilhurst. 

Maude  could  not  enter  into  such  fedings  ;  they  were,  to  her, 


298  THE      EARLS      DAUGHTER. 

petty  and  unbecoming.  She  did  not  look  at  them  deeply,  as  p. 
person  of  high  religious  priucijile  would  have  done ;  but  she 
was  disgusted.  She  longed  to  bury  the  subject  for  ever  in  obli- 
vion. She  heard  that  it  was  proposed  for  Mr.  Wentworth,  if 
possible,  to  enter  the  army,  and  she  hoped  he  might  be  ordeied 
abroad.  That  was  what,  in  her  heart,  she  most  desired.  Any- 
thing to  remove  them  from  her  mother's  thoughts  ;  to  prevent 
the  constant,  exa'^perating  recurrence  to  the  same  unhappy 
topic.  As  regarded  Adelaide,  they  had  never  been  sisters  in 
more  than  name ;  and  Maude  could  not  feign  a  regret  at  her 
loss,  which  she  had  no  reason  to  feel. 

Yet  Senilhurst  was  very  changed.  Something  was  gone 
from  it ;  not  money,  not  rank,  not  any  external  advantage  :  but 
the  life,  the  spring  and  motive  of  excitement,  were  absent. 
Adelaide  had  been  an  excuse  for  visits,  parties,  amusements  ; 
and  though  Maude  professed  not  to  like  these  things,  she  had 
been  so  long  accustomed  to  them  that  she  did  not  know  how  to 
do  without  them.  She  looked  hopelessly  round  for  some  object, 
something  to  do  or  to  care  for,  or  at  least  to  think  of.  Accom- 
plishments and  study  were  left  her,  and  Maude  had  once 
boasted  that  with  these  she  could  never  find  existence  weari- 
some. But  they  were  not  sufficient  now.  There  was  nothing 
soothing  and  satisfying  in  them.  She  might  read,  but  to  what 
purpose  ? — she  might  study,  but  where  was  the  benefit,  if  read- 
ing and  thought  did  but  send  her  forth  on  a  journey  of  intri- 
cate speculations,  and  distracting  difficulties  ?  Maude  leaned 
upon  her  own  mind,  and  it  failed  her. 

That  was  the  state  of  the  outward  world  at  Senilhurst,  sharp, 
irritated,  and  gloomy.  There  was  another,  an  interior  world, 
which  none  saw,  save  those  who  watched  in  the  sick  room, 
where  day  by  day,  and  hour  by  hour,  the  changes  and  flicker- 
ings  of  disease  brought  hope  or  despair  to  the  heart  of  the  Earl 
of  Rutherford.  There  is,  peihaps,  no  self-deception  so  universal 
as  that  which  is  discovered  in  our  anxiety  for  those  we  love. 
If  Lord  Kutherford's  case  had  been  another's  he  would  have 
been  the  first  to  discover  all  that  he  had  to  fear.  But  he  was  a 
father,  watching  over  his  only  child,  and  who  shall  blame  l.im, 
if  as  he  saw  Blanche  partially  regaining  her  strength,  able  lo 
eat,  able  to  be  moved,  able  occasionally  to  converse,  he  fiattered 
himself  with  the  belief,  that  the  illness  was  like  many  other  ill- 
nesses, dangerous  for  the  time,  and  requiring  care  ;  but  giving 
no  definite  reason  to  doubt  that  she  would,  when  the  winter 
was  over,  roo-ain  her  former  healtii. 


THE    earl's    daughter.  290 

"  Your  cough  is  better,  my  love,  to-day,"  he  said,  as  he  came 
to  see  Bhiuche  when  she  was  dressed,  and  sitting  np  for  a  few 
liours  in  her  own  room.  "  Barnes  tells  me  that  it  has  not  been 
half  as  frequent  as  it  was." 

"  I  have  scarcely  coughed  at  all  this  morning,"  replied 
Blanche ;  "  and  I  was  only  really  disturbed  by  it  once  in  the 
night ;  and  then  I  think  it  was  because  the  wind  changed." 

"  But  yo'u  have  not  eaten  anything,"  said  the  earl,  observing 
her  untasted  dinner  placed  on  a  tray  near  her. 

"^  have  no  fancy  for  anything  just  now.  This  being  kept  to 
one  room  takes  away  one's  appetite  ;  but  I  shall  be  better  when 
I  go  out.'* 

"  Yes,  of  course.  "We  must  get  you  out  the  very  first  day 
ne  can,  and  then  you  will  improve  rapidly." 

"  Were  there  any  letters  to-day  ?"  inquired  Blanche,  wishing 
to  change  the  subject. 

"  One  or  two  from  Paithcrford  upon  business." 

"  But  any  for  me  ?" 

Lord  Rutherford  hesitated  a  httle.  "  Yes — no — there  may 
have  been.  But,  my  love,  if  there  should  be,  you  know  we 
agreed  that  you  were  not  to  trouble  yourself  about  them." 
°"But  I  should  like  it,  if  I  might.  It  would  be  an  amuse- 
ment to  me,"  she  was  going  to  say,  but  she  stopped  ; — the 
dread  of  something  unpleasant  which  the  post  might  bring  came 
over  her.  She  had  been  so  ill, — utterly  weak  and  helpless, 
that  she  tad  scarcely  remembered  anything  until  within  the 
last  few  days  ;  and  even  now,  when  she  could  try  to  recollect, 
it  was  difficult  to  bring  her  anxieties  into  a  definite  form.  The 
last  hour  of  excitement  on  the  ball-night  had  left  only  indistinct 
memories  of  ligl  ts,  and  music,  and  crowds  of  people,  and  of  an 
under-current  of  great  pliysical  and  mental  sutlering  to  herself, 
and  there  was  no  one  whom  !^he  could  ask  to  make  it  clearer 
for  her.  Eleanor,  she  knew,  was  gone,  and  there  had  been  no 
letter  from  her;  only  inquiries  for  herself  through  the  John- 
stones.  And  there  was  also  a  rumour  that  Eleanor  had 
returned  to  Ilutherford  ,  but  how,  or  when,  or  why,  no  one 
would  say.  She  was  always  entreated  not  to  talk,  and  warned 
ihat  her  ultimate  recovery  depended  upon  her  being  kept  per- 
fectly quiet,  but  they  who  said  this  little  thought  how  much 
worry  of  mind  they  were  causing.  "  I  am  really  much  better 
to-day,  dear  papa,"  she  continued,  looking  up  at  him  with  a 
emile,  which  it  was  almost  impossible  to  resist ;  "  and  T  should 


SOO  THE    earl's    daughter. 

very  much  like  to  have  my  letters,  if  there  are  any.  Did  yot 
say  tliere  were  ?" 

"  I  think  and  I  believe  there  may  be.  But,  my  love,  1 
should  be  pleased  if  you  would  wait.  I  am  sure  it  would  be 
better,  unless  you  were  anxious — there  is  nothing  you  care  par 
ticularly  to  hear  of,  is  there  ?" 

"  I  have  been  wishing  very  much  to  hear  from  Eleanor.  If 
there  was  a  letter  from  her  I  should  be  glad  to  have  it."  Ilt-r 
check  flushed  a  little  as  she  spoke  ;  and  the  earl  looked  at  her 
uneasily,  and  remarked  that  even  the  thought  of  the  letters  had 
done  her  harm,  and  he  was  sure  she  was  much  better  without 
them.  Blanche  tried  very  hard  to  acquiesce  willingly.  Slie 
said  if  he  wished  it,  she  would  not  ask  ;  she  would  wait  till  the 
next  day ;  but  a  tear  glistened  in  her  eye,  though  she  was 
ashamed  of  being  so  childishly  weak.  Lord  Rutherford  offered 
to  read.  He  had  not  read  the  Psalms  for  the  day  to  her  ;  and 
he  did  so  regularly  now.  It  came  quite  as  part  of  his  duty  as 
her  nurse  ;  and  he  was  beginning  to  look  forward  to  it  as 
something  quieting  and  refreshing.  Blanche  thanked  him,  and 
said  she  should  like  it  very  much,  and  he  went  to  another  table 
to  fetch  the  Prayer-book,  which  had  been  moved  away  when 
the  dinner  was  brought.  Blanche  wiped  away  her  tears 
hastily,  that  he  might  not  see  it ;  but  he  turned  round  at  the 
instant,  and  that  peculiar  look  of  sorrowful  eagerness  came  over 
his  fiice,  which  was  always  to  be  seen  when  Blanche  was 
disai)pointed.  He  put  down  the  Prayer-book,  and  came  up 
to  her  instantly,  and  said,  had  she  really  any  Avish  or  fancy 
about  the  letters  ?  he  would  fetch  them  for  her  directly  if  she 
had. 

"  Only  for  Eleanor's  !"  repeated  Blanche.  "  I  was  very 
anxious  to  hear  from  her." 

Lord  Rutherford  thought  for  a  moment,  and  then  he  replied, 
" There  is  a  letter  fiom  her,  but  I  am  afraid  it  might  be  worse 
for  you  than  any  others,  because  it  would  be  so  likely  to  excite 
you." 

"  I  am  more  likely  to  be  excited  without  it,"  said  Blanche, 
"  because  I  lie  here  and  think  so." 

Again  Lord  Rutherford  pondered  for  a  moment,  and  Blanche 
watched  his  face,  and  read  it ;  and  laying  her  hand  upon  his 
arm,  said,  "  Papa,  you  have  something  to  tell  me." 

"  Not  about  Miss  Weutworth  exactly — only  about  her  bro 
ther  and — ■" 

''  Adelaide,"  said  Blanche  hurriedly,  and  at  the  moment  a 


THE    earl's    daughter.  301 

veil  seemed  to  be  taken  from  the  past,  an  J  it  stood  out  c/earlv 
to  view. 

"  You  guess  then,"  continued  the  earl,  and  a  smile  involun 
tarily  began  to  play  upon  his  lips ;  but  it  changed  as  he  sa« 
the  expression  of  Blanche's  face ;  it  was  that  of  extreme  distress : 
and  closing  her  eyes  as  if  to  shut  out  some  painful  vision,  she 
sank  back  upon  heV  pillow,  and  exclaimed,  "  Then  it  is  over ! 
Shall  I  ever  be  forgiven  !" 

A  sudden  thought,  startling,  unendural)le,  crossed  the  earl's 
m\tf3i ;  he  repelled  it,  and  sitting  down  by  Blanche,  said,  "  Will 
they  be  forgiven,  you  mean.  I  hope  it  may  all  turn  out  better 
than  we  expect ;  but  it  is  a  sad  business."  Blanche  still  kept 
her  eyes  closed ;  she  was  repeating  something  to  herself;  the 
anguish  of  her  countenance  was  inexplicable ;  could  it  be  that 
she  was  involved  in  such  a  secret  ?  With  her  delicacy,  sim- 
plicity, and  refinement,  was  it  possible  that  she  could  have  been 
a  party  to  the  intended  marriage  ?  The  earl  shrank  from  the 
suggestion  as  if  a  serpent  had  stung  him  ;  but  in  a  moment  a 
flood  of  corroborative  circumstances  rushed  upon  him.  At 
another  time  he  would  have  been  the  first  to  consider  pru- 
dence ;  but  this  suspicion,  this  possible  taint  upon  the  object 
of  his  idolizing  affection,  goaded  him  beyond  endurance,  and  he 
exclaimed,  "  You  did  not  know  it  ?  Blanche,  my  child,  you 
could  not  have  had  anything  to  do  with  it  ?"  For  the  first  time 
since  they  had  been  together  his  tone  was  severe. 

It  fell  with  a  painful  shock  upon  ])oor  Blanche,  uprooting  her 
unconscious  trust  in  her  own  power  over  him.  "  I  did  not 
mean  to  do  wrong.  I  acted  for  the  best,"  she  said,  meekly. 
"  Please  do  not  be  angry  with  me ;"  and  at  the  mention  of 
anger  Lord  Rutherford  started,  as  if  he  had  been  accused  of 
some  grievous  crime,  and  the  love  which  even  when  it  lay 
dormant  in  his  breast  was  the  moving  spring  of  his  daily  life, 
came  back  with  a  torrent  of  bitterness  to  reproach  him.  He 
told  her  that  she  was  his  hope,  his  treasure;  the  one  only  joy 
of  his  life ;  that  it  would  be  a  sin  to  doubt  her  ;  and  Blanche 
listened  in  fear,  and  prayed  that  the  love  which  was  fixed  u\Hm 
her,  might  in  mercy  find  a  surer  resting-place,  and  then  hum- 
bly asked  if  she  might  tell  him  all  that  she  had  done. 

It  was  a  tale  soon  repeated,  soon  understood,  and  Blanche 
was  happy  when  she  heard  her  father's  whispered  blessings  ; 
but  she  did  not  discover  how  much  cause  he  had  for  thankful- 
ness himself  She  did  not  remeuilx'r  the  load  which  must  bo 
taken  from  his  lieart  by  the  knowledge  of  the  cause  of  her 


302  THE    earl's    daughter. 

depression ;  and  she  did  not  perceive  the  reverence  wliich  hei 
firmness  and  consistency  of  character  inspired.  Lord  Ruther- 
ford thought  httle  of  religion  himself,  but  he  could  now  appre- 
ciate it  as  a  principle  in  others  ;  and  with  Bkuche  he  would 
have  shrunk  from  the  careless  bestowal  of  his  patronao-e,  jis 
from  an  injustice  against  a  charge  entrusted  to  him. 

Silence  followed  :  the  peaceful  silence  of  hearts  which  are  one 
in  affection  and  confidence.  "Blanche,"  said  the  earl  at  length, 
"  it  was  excitement  which  made  you  so  ill.  Your  aunt  snys 
you  ought  not  to  have  come  down  stairs  the  night  of  the  ball." 

Blanche  looked  up  at  him  and  smiled.  "  Ought  I  not  ?  but 
you  like  to  see  me  cheerful." 

She  meant  nothing  particular  ;  but  he  repeated  the  last  word 
i|uickly.     "  Cheerful  ?  who  told  you  I  thought  about  it  ?" 

"  Your  voice,  your  manner."  She  hesitated  ;  they  were 
,/i-eading  upon  dangerous  ground. 

"  When  ?  the  day  that  I  gave  away  the  livino-  ?" 

"  Every  day,  and  always,"  and  involuntarily  there  was  an 
accent  of  sadness  in  Blanche's  tone.  Another  pause  came,  not 
happy  and  peaceful  as  the  former. 

"  Blanche,"  said  the  earl,  again,  gravely,  "  you  must  not  try 
to  i-ead  my  thoughts." 

Blanche  tried  to  smile  as  she  kissed  him,  and  answered,  half 
reproachfully,  "  How  can  I  help  it,  when  you  have  given  me  the 
key  to  interpret  them  ?" 

Alas  !  for  the  transitory  nature  of  earthly  peace.  Those  few 
sentences  had  re-awakened  the  bitterness  of  the  earl's  remorse 
and  anxiety.  It  was  he  then  who  had  caused  her  illness,  he 
who  by  the  very  intensity  of  his  solicitude  for  her  happiness,  had 
compelled  her  to  an  exertion  which  might  be  fatal. 

The  curse  he  had  so  long  dreaded  had  fallen  upon  him, 
though  in  another  form,  at  last. 


CHAPTER  XLVni. 


It  was  the  bright  spring  time  at  Rutherford  Parsonage,  'i'he 
smooth,  neatly  trimmed  lawn,  the  flower-bed  gay  with  anemones, 
auriculas,  and  polyanthuses — the  fii-st  fresh  green  buds  upon  the 
trees,  were  all  telling  of  the  genial  inspiriting  influence  of  a  morn- 
ing in  May.  In  a  light  hand-carriage,  which  had  been  drawn 
into  one  of  the  most  sunny  walks,  reclined  a  lady,  whose  grey 


THE    earl's    daughter.  G03 

hair,  'sunken,  worn  clieeks,  dim  eyes,  and  wrinkled  brow,  would 
nt  a  distance  have  given  the  idea  of  much  greater  age  than  coulJ 
be  traced  on  a  nearer  approach.  Her  features  were  good — once 
they  might  have  been  handsome,  for  their  outline  was  very  strik- 
ing ;  but  there  was  a  strange,  stony,  impassive  look  in  the  eyes, 
which  ga\e  in  general  a  cold,  even  vacant  look  to  the  counte- 
nance. Only,  at  times,  a  flash,  as  of  some  returning  brightness, 
some  gleam  from  past  memories,  flitted  over  it;  and  then,  for 
an  instant,  it  was  beautiful  with  intellect ;  but  the  gleam  gone, 
and  the  set  features  returned  to  their  former  hstless  granty,  and 
the  helpless  hands,  and  the  querulous  voice,  seemed  but  the  fit 
accompaniments  of  an  age  of  disease  and  dreariness. 

"  It  is  pleasant  to-day,  dear  mamma,"  said  Eleanor  Went- 
worth,  bending  over  her  mother's  chair  :  "  dou't  you  see  how  for- 
ward the  flowers  are  ?" 

Mrs.  Wentworth  looked  round  for  a  moment,  and  said,  "  Cro 
on,  into  the  shade." 

"  But  this  is  the  warmest  spot,  mamma,"  continued  Eleanor  ; 
"and  you  know  we  are  expecting  Blanche,  and  she  must  not  go 
into  the  shade.  You  will  like  her  to  come  and  see  you  ;  wont 
you  ? " 

Mrs.  Wentworth  looked  up  quickly  and  said,  "  Yes,  we  must 
make  her  happy,  for  he  doesn't  treat  her  at  all  well.  It  is  very 
sad.     Tell  your  father  I  want  to  see  him." 

"  Papa  yill  come  presently,"  said  Eleanor,  her  lip  quivering ; 
"  but  we  will  go  on,  dear  mamma,  if  you  like  it,  into  the 
shade?" 

"  Yes,  that  will  be  best ;  go  on  ;"  and  they  went  on. 

Dr.  Wentworth  was  standing  at  his  study  window.  He  per- 
ceived them  and  came  to  them.  "  It  is  pleasant  to  see  you  out 
to-day,  my  love,"  he  said,  addressing  his  wife.  "  You  are  all 
the  better  for  it,  I  am  sure."  Unconsciously  his  tone  was  that 
of  a  father  speaking  to  a  child ;  and  there  was  something  of 
^  child's  simple  trusting  love  in  Mrs.  Wentworth's  way  of  put- 
ting her  hand  into  his,  and  telling  him  to  keep  close  to  her,  and 
not  to  let  them  go  too  fast. 

Eleanor  left  her  mother's  side,  and  came  round  to  her  father. 
"  Are  the  letters  come  ?"  she  asked  in  a  very  low  voice  ;  but,  low 
though  it  was,  it  reached  Mi-s.  AVentworth's  ear. 

"  Letters  !"  she  repeated  ;  "  give  them  to  me  ;  we  must  answer 
them.  We  have  a  great  dealto  do.  We  had  better  go  in  and 
answer  them.     Tell  Jones  to  stop." 

"Yes,   presently,   dear   mamma;  presently,    my  lore,"  said 


304  THE    earl's    daughter. 

Eleanor  and  Dr.  Wentworth,  in  one  breath.  "  We  will  go  in 
presently." 

"  But,"  continued  Dr.  Wentworth,  slipping  a  packet  of  let- 
ters into  Eleanor's  hand,  "  I  should  like  you  just  to  be  drawn 
round  the  orchard  once  ;  and  Eleanor  can  go  and  fetch  my  hat." 
Mrs.  Wentworth  sank  back  again  in  her  chair,  and  Eleanor,  care- 
fully concealing  tlie  letters,' went  into  the  house.  Nearly  ten 
minutes  elapsed  before  she  returned,  and  then  her  eyes  Avere  red 
with  cr3nng;  but  she  kept  her  face  steadily  averted  from  her 
father,  until  her  mother's  attention  was  occupied  by  what  she 
thought  was  a  new  shrub.  Then,  as  they  stopped  to  examine 
it,  Eleanor  walked  on  a  few  paces  with  Dr.  Wentworth,  and 
said  :  "  He  must  not  see  her ;  I  am  afraid.  It  would  do  her 
great  harm  !" 

Dr.  Wentworth  tore  off  a  twig  from  a  tree,  and  casting  it  from 
him,  replied,  "  Let  him  go.  I  had  only  one  wish  in  his  seeing 
her." 

"  It  would  break  his  heart,"  said  Eleanor. 

"  It  might  sober  him  for  life,"  re])lied  her  father. 

"He  will  not  come  without  Adelaide,"  said  Eleanor,  taking 
advantage  of  a  narrow  part  of  the  walk  still  to  walk  a  liitte 
before  the  carriage,  and  side  by  side  with  her  father. 

"Then  he  will  not  come  at  all,"  was  the  bitter  reply.  "  Your 
poor  mother  shall  never,  with  B:iy  consent,  be  harassed  by  the 
sight  of  her." 

"  Eleanor,"  called  out  Mrs.  Wentworth,  in  a  shrill  plaintive 
voice,  "  I  wish  you  would  inquire  about  the  letters.  There 
wont  b«  any  time  to  answer  them,  and  you  know  I  must  go  up 
to  the  castle  this  afternoon.  She  is  not  so  well,  you  said.  I  pro- 
mised I  would  go." 

''  Lady  Blanche  is  coming  here,  dear  mamma,"  said  Eleanor, 
with  a  particular  stress  upon  the  name.  "  You  know  she  has 
had  a  bad  cough,  and  is  very  ill ;  and  she  is  coming  to  wish 
you  good  b'ye  before  Lord  Ilutherford  takes  her  to  the  sea-side 
for  change  of  air." 

"  Ah  !  yes,  I  forgot,"  and  Mrs.  Wentworth  looked  at  her 
husband  wonderingly.  "  I  don't  know  how  it  is  I  forget  so.  I 
know  they  told  me  she  had  been  ill.  She  has  been  so  a  long 
time,  has  not  she  ?" 

"  All  the  winter,"  answered  Dr.  W^entworth.  "  She  broke  a 
blood-vessel  when  she  was  at  — "  a  rapid,  cautionary  glant'e 
from  Eleanor  stopped  him,  and  he  finished  the  sentence,  "  when 
she  was  away." 


THE    earl's    daughter.  305 

"  And  tliey  did  not  think  she  would  hve  then,"  continued 
Eleanor,  not  allowing  a  moment's  time  for  a  question  ;  "  but  she 
was  better  after  a  time,  and  they  brought  her  lo  the  castle : 
now  she  is  going  away  for  a  change  again." 

"  A  long  change,"  said  Dr.  Wentworth,  gravely.  "  It  is  a 
cruel  thing  in  those  doctoi-s.  Poor  child  !  why  not  let  her  die 
at  home  ?" 

Eleanor  was  silent,  but  she  drew  back  from  her  mother's 
chair,  and  walked  for  some  paces  alone. 

"One  more  turn,  my  dear,  round  the  orchard,"  said  Dr. 
Wentworth,  arranging  his  wife's  cushions,  and  giving  a  sign  to 
the  gardener  to  go  on.  Then  he-  rejoined  Eleanor.  "  I  shall 
write  to  Charles  by  to-day's  post :  you  may  write  too,  if  you 
will.  I  don't  want  him  to  feel  himself  cut  oft";  but  he  must 
not  come  here." 

"  It  seems  very  hard,"  said  Eleanor. 

"  Hard !"  and  Dr.  Wentworth  paused  impatiently,  in  his 
walk.  "  Look  at  her  ; — look  at  your  poor  mother ;  and  then 
say  who  has  been  treated  hardly  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Eleanor,  speaking  in  a  low,  crushed  voice  ;  "  but 
she  would  be  the  first  to  forgive,  if  she  could." 

"  And  I  forgive,  too,"  said  Dr.  Wentworth,  solemnly.  "God 
forbid  that  I  should  not ;  even  as  I  hope  to  be  forgiven  myself. 
It  is  not  from  anger  that  I  say  he  must  not  come.  If  he  were 
alone  I  might  risk  it ;  but  if  he  insists  upon  bringing  that  — " 

"Papa,  dear  papa,"  said  Eleanor,  entreatingly. 

"  You  are  right ;  you  are  right,"  replied  Dr.  Wentworth ; 
"  we  must  be  charitable.  If  she  were  sorrowful — if  she  could 
feel  what  she  has  done — I  could  be  so  easily.  But  she  is 
a  flirt ;  a  cold,  heartless  flirt ;"  he  repeated.  "  She  was  so 
before  she  married;  she  is  so  still." 

"  Yes,  that  is  the  worst  of  all,"  said  Eleanor,  with  a  heavy 
sigh ;  "  and  one  cannot  help  pitying  Charles  all  the  more." 

"A  soldier  in  a  foreign  land,"  continued  Dr.  Wentworth, 
"  with  a  wife  whom  he  nmst  despise  ;  feeling  himself  scorned  by 
her  famil}-,  and  having  utterly  shipwrecked  the  happiness  of  his 
own  ;  he  m^^  well  be  wretched." 

"  He  is  wretched — very  miserable,"  said  Eleanor. 

"  But  what  could  he  expect  better  ?"  pursued  Dr.  \\'entworth. 
"  What  has  any  man  a  right  to  expect  when  he  trusts  his  hap- 
piness to  a  woman  who  could  behave  like  Adelaide  Charlton  .'" 

"  People  may  do  worse  things  than  Adelaide  has  done,"  said 
Eleanor,  sorrowfully,  "  and  not  be  blamed  half  as  much." 


300  THE    earl's    daughter. 

Dr.  "Wentwortli  looked  at  Eleanor  kindly,  fur  he  understood 
her.  "  My  jjoor  child  !"  he  said,  and  as  he  put  up  his  hand  to 
wipe  away  a  tear,  he  added,  "I  can  take  intinite  ]>larae  to  my- 
self. I  wjis  too  secure,  too  certain  that  all  was  right.  I 
allowed  him  to  have  his  own  way,  and  I  shut  my  eyes  to  his 
faults.  Your  poor  mother  was  the  only  person  who  saw  him 
truly.  But  one  thing  I  can  be  thankful  for — that  he  was 
saved  from  entering  holy  orders.  To  have  induced  him  to 
be  a  clergyman,  and  then  to  have  discovered  his  untitness, 
would  have  been  a  misery  to  me  for  life." 

Mrs.  Wentworth's  voice  was  just  then  heard,  in  a  querulous 
accent.  She  was  wondering  where  they  were  gone  ;  why  they 
did  not  come  and  walk  by  her  side ;  and,  as  they  hastened  to 
her,  she  burst  into  tears,  and  said  it  was  a  miserable  day ; 
every  one  neglected  her. 

Eleanor  pinned  her  shawl  comfortably,  and  settled  her 
cushion  again,  and  as  the  sound  of  carriage -wheels,  and  of 
a  bell,  was  heard  at  the  entrance,  exclaimed,  "  Hark  !  there  is 
Blanche.  Dear  mamma,  you  will  like  to  see  her  for  one 
minute." 

"  I  don't  know — I  don't  want  to  see  any  one.  Why  do 
they  bring  her  down  here  ?  Isn't  she  very  ill  ?"  said  Mrs. 
Wentworth,  her  eyes  moving  rapidly  from  side  to  side ;  and 
then,  in  a  startled  voice,  she  added,  "  Does  he  come  with  her?" 

"  Blanche  will  come  alone,  if  you  like  it,"  said  Eleanor ;  and 
going  round  to  her  f;)ther,  who  was  walking  a  little  behind,  she 
whispered, "  You  must  keep  Lord  Rutherford.  Blanche  will  only 
stay  a  very  few  minutes,  dear  mamma ;"  she  added,  returning 
to  her  mother,  and  trying  to  occupy  her  attention  whilst  Dr. 
Wentworth  went  to  receive  the  earl.  "  You  know  she  is 
scarcely  allowed  to  stand  still  at  all  out  of  doors ;  and  she  is  so 
very  soon  tired." 

"  Yes, — yes,  I  know,"  replied  Mrs.  Wentworth,  and  murmur- 
ing to  hei^elf,  she  added,  "  she  is  going  ;  it  is  all  best ;  there  is 
no  care  there." 

The  garden  gate  opened,  and  closed  again.  Eleanor  looked 
round. 

"  Are  they  coming  ?"  said  Mrs.  Wentworth,  growing  excited. 
"  Make  me  look  neat,  Eleanor ;  you  didn't  dress  me  properly. 
The  earl  always  makes  remarks." 

Eleanor  bent  down  her  head,  and  busied  hereelf  with  her 
mother.  It  might  have  been  that  she  could  not  bear  to  watch 
the  feeble  footsteps  with  which   Blanche,  supported   by   her 


THE    earl's    daughter.  307 

father,  moved  slowly  along  the  walk.  Dr.  Wentwoith  and 
Maude  Charlton  were  behind  her;  but  as  they  drew  near 
to  Mrs.  Wentworth,  the  earl  stopped  and  gave  up  his  place  to 
Maude. 

"  Blanche,  Blanche !"  repeated  Mrs.  "Wentworth,  wiih  an 
effort  at  thought.     "  Is  she  like  her  mother  ?" 

Eleanor^made  no  answer  ;  for  Blanche  was  standing  by  her. 
One  silent  kiss  she  imprinted  on  her  forehead,  and  then  leadino- 
her_^  round  to  the  front  of  Mrs.  Wentworth's  chair,  she  said, 
"  Mamma,  it  is  Lady  Blanche  Evelyn,  come  to  wish  you  good 
b'ye." 

Mrs.  "Wentworth  looked  up  with  an  unmeaning  start  of  sur- 
prise, and  as  her  eye  caught  the  pale  brow,  and  dark,  glittering, 
sunken  eye,  and  the  hollow  cheek — which  were  all  that  could 
be  seen  of  Blanche's  sweet  foce — a  smile  of  pleasure  lit  up  her 
own  features,  and  she  said  hurriedly,  "  I  w^as  coming  to  you 
to-day.  Will  he  be  out,  and  shall  we  have  an  hour  to  our 
selves  ?"  Dimness  gathered  over  Blanche's  eyes,  and  her  voice 
was  choked. 

"  It  will  net  do,"  said  Eleanor  ;  "  but  I  thought  when  she 
saw  you  it  might  be  different." 

"  Will  you  not  know  me  ? — will  you  not  wish  me  a  safe 
journey  ?  Dear  Mrs.  "Wentworth,  I  am  Blanche  Evelyn  ;"  and 
Blanche  bent  down  that  her  face  might  be  more  clearly  recog- 
nised. Mrs.  Wentworth  caught  her  hand,  and  looked  at  her 
sternly  and  fixedly. 

"  Yes,"  she  said;  "yes,  I  know  you.     You  are  going." 

"  Going  where  we  shall  meet  again,  I  trust,"  said  Blanche, 
calmly. 

A  gleam  of  intelligence  brightened  the  vacant  face.  Mrs. 
Wentworth  smiled,  and  raising  the  hand  of  which  she  still 
retained  the  use,  to  Blanche's  head,  she  gently  stroked  her  fore- 
head, as  a  mother  might  that  of  a  petted  child ;  and  said, 
"  God  bless  and  keep  you,  my  dear,  and  bring  you  back  better. 
And  Eleanor,"  she  added,  firmly,  "  give  her  her  mother's  pic- 
ture— she  will  like  it." 

It  was  the  utmost  effort  of  remaining  intellect.  Mra. 
Wentworth's  hand  dropped,  and  her  head  sank  back  ;  and 
when  Blanche  gave  one  paiting  kiss,  a  wondering  stare  was  all 
that  met  her  trazc. 


808  THE    earl's    daughter, 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 


Gloriously  beautiful  was  the  splendour  of  the  sotting  sun, 
as  it  slowly  sank  to  rest  that  evening  behind  the  steep  hills 
which  closed  the  ravine  at  the  foot  of  Rutherford  castle.  Far 
over  hill  and  valley  streamed  the  flood  of  its  golden  rays  ;  and 
the  rugged  mountains  in  the  distance  were  wrapped  in  a  veil  of 
glittering  mist,  whilst  their  peaks  caught  and  transmitted  from 
point  to  point,  the  light  which  they  gathered  from  the  glowing 
skies.  And  nearer,  where  the  radiant  colouring  of  the  highei 
hills,  had  melted  into  the  purple  shadow  of  rock  and  wood, 
ihere  still  gleamed  a  faint  path  of  light  upon  the  deep-flowing 
stream,  winding  its  way  ever  and  onwards,  without  pause  or 
rest,  like  the  course  of  that  awful  river  of  Time  which,  ht  by 
the  reflection  of  Heaven,  is  carrying  us  all  to  eternity. 

The  Earl  of  Rutherford  walked  alone  on  the  terrace  of  the 
castle.  Alone  !  that  word  suffices  to  tell  the  tale  of  his  misery. 
What  matter  to  him,  that  the  gorgeous  sun-set  illuminated  a 
princely  domain  which  owned  him  for  its  lord  ?  What  matter 
that,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  in  hamlets,  and  villages,  and 
towns,  and  the  remote  recesses  of  the  distant  hills,  wherever 
his  name  was  heard,  men  bent  before  it  with  respect,  and 
envied  him  his  greatness  and  his  power  ? — he  was  alone  ;  and 
Blanche  was  dying. 

It  is  long  before  we  allow  the  meaning  of  that  word  to  force 
itself  upon  our  minds.  It  had  been  long  before  Lord  Ruther- 
ford would  own  to  himself  the  realization  of  the  fear  which 
haunted  him  from  the  first  moment  of  his  child's  illness.  But 
it  was  all  clear  now — all  true  and  vivid.  There  was  death 
written  in  the  hectic  colour  of  her  hollow  cheek — in  the  glassy 
brightness  of  her  dark  eye — in  the  burning  touch  of  her  long 
fingers ;  and  the  quick,  short  coagh  which  came  but  for  a 
moment  to  leave  behind  it  the  echo  of  a  funeral  knell. 

Blanche  was  dying.  She  might  linger — she  had  lingered — 
from  day  to  day,  from  week  to  week — no  great  change  marking 
the  progress  of  disease  ;  sometimes  apparently  better,  able  to 
work  and  read — sometimes  exhausted  and  feverish  ;  no  one  day 
exactly  like,  or  widely  difiering  from,  the  other.  But  the  end 
was  certain.  It  was  in  vain  that  physicians  gave  flattering 
hopes,  and  friends  related  wonderful  recoveries.  There  was  one 
fact  to  which  no  one  who  watched  Blanche  constantly  could  be 
bhnd — she  did  not  improve.     Every  week  something  was  taken 


THE    earl's    dalghter.  303 

from  her  strength ;  every  week  something  was  given  up  which 
she  bad  before  been  able  to  enjoy.  The  incipient  diseasCj  which 
miirht  have  been  warded  ofi'  at  first  by  care,  had  received  a 
fatal  impulse  on  the  night  of  the  Senilhui-st  ball;  and  the 
chano-es,  though  imperceptible  at  the  moment,  were  nevertheless 
very  rapid. 

For  a  time  Lord  Rutherford  had  flattered  himself  that  the 
weather  wj;^  in  fault.  When  snow  lay  upon  the  ground,  in 
the  month  of  January,  he  looked  forward  to  the  spring  for  her 
recovery  ;  and  when  the  spring  came,  and  the  east  winds  blew 
keenly,  he  said  that  they  could  expect  no  real  amendment  till 
the  summer.  A  warm  summer  in  England  and  a  winter 
abroad  would  quite  set  her  up.  But  summer  approached,  and 
the  \reather  was  unusually  favourable  ;  and  still,  though  Blanche 
might  rally  for  a  tew  days,  there  was  no  real  progress  :  and 
then  the  earl  looked  more  careworn,  and  said  less  ;  only  he 
thought  she  would  be  better  at  Rutherford,  and  to  Rutherford 
they  prepared  to  go. 

That  at  least  was  a  satisfaction  to  Blanche.  She  pined  for 
home,  with  an  indefinable,  eager  longing.  Slie  did  not  say  to 
herself  that  she  should  be  well  there  ;  perhaps  she  did  not  in 
her  heart  think  so:  but  in  her  sad  moments — the  hour  of 
weakness,  both  of  body  and  mind — which  are  the  greatest  trial 
of  such  diseases,  she  fancied  that  it  might  at  least  bring  her  a 
respite.    - 

The  air  of  Rutherford,  the  lovely  views,  the  peculiar  comforts 
of  her  own  rooms,  the  interests  which  were  to  be  found  in  the 
village,  and,  above  all,  the  hope  of  seeing  Eleanor,  and  return- 
ing to  the  friendship,  which,  though  interrupted,  had  never 
been  lost — all  gave  a  charm  to  the  jjrospect  of  return.  If  she 
could  be  a<  Rutherford  again,  she  felt  that  she  might  live  ;  and 
the  thought  sent  a  bonndmg  thrill  through  her  veins.  For  life 
is  very  pleasant  to  the  young,  and  Blanche  had  just  tasted  of 
its  enjoyments. 

Then  came  the  departure  fi'om  Senilhurst — the  huny  of 
preparation — the  unavoidable  excitement — thcj  last  thoughts, 
and  last  farewells.  Blanche  could  not  escape  them.  She  was 
sorrowful  and  depressed,  without  apparently  sufficient  cause; 
and  they  told  her  it  was  weakness— that  she  would  be  a  differ- 
ent person  at  Rutherford,  and  would  return  again  to  Senilhurst 
quite  well ;  and  she  smiled  and  said,  she  would  not  call  it  a 
real  good  b'ye, — she  did  hope  to  come  again  very  soon  ;  and 
she  had  left  a  box  and  some  books  to  be  kept  for  her.     She 


310  THE    eahl's    daughter. 

becfged  her  aunt  would  write  to  her,  and  say  how  she  manao-ed 
witliout  Maude.  It  was  so  very,  very  kind  to  spare  Maude.  It 
would  be  such  a  comfort  till  she  was  better  ;  but  she  would  not 
keep  her  a  day  longer  than  was  necessary. 

And  Lady  Charlton  struggled  against  her  rising  tears,  and 
kissed  her  tenderly;  and  Sir  Hugh  waved  his  hand,  as  she  was 
assisted  down  the  steps — and  she  was  gone. 

It  was  two  days'  journey  from  Senilhurst  to  Rutherford ; 
v\hen  they  had  travelled  before  it  was  but  one.  Then  Blanche 
was  able  to  enjoy  the  novelty  of  the  road,  and  to  look  forward 
with  expectation,  and  hopes  of  pleasure  :  now  she  was  laid  on 
cushions,  too  tired  to  speak  or  think.  When  they  had  left 
Itutherford,  she  had  bounded  down  the  staircase,  eager  to  be 
useful  and  kind  to  every  one  :  now  she  was  lifted  in  her  father's 
arms,  and  carried  to  her  own  apartments  fainting. 

That  night,  the  night  of  their  arrival  at  home,  the  earl  first 
felt  that  she  would  die.  And  that  night,  also,  as  Blanche  laid 
her  head  upon  her  pillow,  she  prayed  that  she  might  be  taught 
to  die.  Nearly  a  month  had  passed  since,  and  another  change 
had  been  proposed.  The  air  of  Rutherford  was  thought  too 
keen  ;  and  a  removal  to  the  sea-coast  was  considered  desirable. 
It  was  the  advice  of  a  first-rate  London  physician  ;  the  earl  and 
Blanche  acquiesced  without  a  word  of  objection  ;  but  when  the 
physician  was  gone,  they  looked  at  each  other  and  said,  "  Ke 
may  be  right :  it  is  of  little  consequence  so  that  we  are 
together."  That  was  their  one  thought — that  they  might  be 
together — that  the  earl  might  sit  by  her,  and  raise  her  when 
she  wished  for  change  of  posture,  and  bathe  her  forehead  when 
she  was  exhausted,  and  read  to  her  when  she  was  able  to  listen, 
and  mark  the  hours  for  her  daily  drives— her  food — her  medi- 
cine ;  and  that  Blanche  might  thank  him  in  whispers,  and 
smoothe  his  hair,  and  press  his  hand,  and  lift  her  eyes  to  his, 
with  a  smile  on  her  pale  lips,  and  a  prayer  of  uimtterable  thank- 
fulness in  her  inmost  heart,  for  the  mercy  which  in  leading  her 
to  death,  was  leading  her  father  to  heaven. 

Lord  Rutherford  was  said  to  be  determined  in  his  opinions, 
rigiil  in  his  self-formed  principles,  proud  of  his  influence,  and 
exacting  in  his  demands  upon  the  submission  even  of  his  equals. 
He  might  have  been,  he  was  all  this  and  much  more :  haughty, 
indifterent,  unsympathising,  selfish  ;  as  that  man  must  be  who 
has  reached  the  middle  of  life  without  contradiction  or  self- 
examination  :  but  he  was  honest-minded.  Whatever  were  the 
errors  of  his  practice  or  his  belief,  he  was  no  self-deceiver  :  and 


THE      EARL    S      DAUGHTER.  811 

from  tlie  fatal  moment  when  lie  stood  by  the  inanimate  bodv  of 
his  wife,  and  felt  the  conviction  that  he  had  been  the  murderer 
of  her  peace,  if  not  of  her  life,  he  had  carried  with  him  a 
goadiniij  thought  of  self-reproach  to  shield  him,  as  by  a  secret 
sjiell,  from  the  intoxication  of  earthly  splendour.  He  had  Uved 
with  Blanche  now  for  months  only;  to  him  they  seemed  jears, 
— since  he  jeould  not  realize  what  life  had  been  without  her ; 
and  in  that  time,  secretly,  and  without  word,  or  argument,  or 
entrejjity,  new  principles  and  motives  of  conduct  had  been 
gradually  stealing  into  his  heart.  He  scarcely  knew  it  himself; 
he  did  not  understand  the  power  which  influenced  him  ;  and, 
when  he  thonght  of  it  at  all,  he  supposed  that  it  was  a  Other's 
natural  affection  for  a  child  like  Blanche ;  and  so  at  first  it 
was.  When  Lord  Rutherford  began  to  read  to  Blanche  and 
talk  about  thinijs  which  interested  her,  and  take  trouble  for  the 
poor,  he  did  it  merely  because  it  was  her  fancy,  and  it  gave 
liim  i)leasure  to  listen  to  her  remarks,  and  hear  her  thanks  ;  he 
did  not  care  for  the  subjects  in  themselves ;  and  satisfaction  like 
this  was  very  unreal,  and  to  a  person  less  true  might  have  been 
very  deceptive.  But  Lord  Rutherford  was  too  clear-sighted  to 
believe  that  he  resembled  Blanche,  or  was  actuated  by  her 
motives,  because  he  was  beginning  to  approve  what  she 
approved.  He  would  even  have  been  annoyed  if  such  a 
thought  had  been  suggested  :  for  he  was  proud  and  self-confi- 
dent, and  Blanche  was  to  him  only  "  as  a  very  lovely  song  of 
one  that  hath  a  pleasant  voice,"  exquisite  to  the  senses,  but  not 
reaching  the  heart. 

Bu  they  were  to  part.  The  decree  had  gone  forth,  to  all 
human  knowledge  absolute  and  irreversible.  She  was  to  be 
taken  from  him ;  it  might  be  in  a  few  weeks,  it  might  be  in  a 
few  months,  it  could  scarcely  be — in  a  year.  And  whither  was 
she  going  ?  Lord  Rutherford  had  no  doubt  in  his  re])l3^ 
When  the  thought  first  came,  as  he  looked  at  his  angel-child, 
when  she  had  tallen  asleep  whilst  he  was  reading  to  her,  her 
fingers  clasped  in  the  earnestness  of  the  prayer  with  which  she 
had  followed  his  Avords,  and  the  brightness  of  heaven's  peace 
resting  upon  her  fair  young  face,  he  knew  that  she  was  safe. 
The  voice  of  a  messenger  from  above  could  scarcely  have 
increased  his  confidence.  And  he  said  to  himself  then,  and 
many  times  afterwards,  that  she  was  too  good  for  this  world. 
He  said  it  to  Dr.  Wentworth  when  he  came  to  see  her;  ho 
w  rot«  it  to  Lady  Charlton,  and  he  fancied  that  it  gi^ve  him 
c<>mfort.  But  did  it  do  so  ? 
14 


312  THK       EARLS      DAUGHTER. 

Ill  the  anguish  of  tlie  long  nights,  as  he  lay  awake  listening 
for  every  sound,  conjuring  up  visions  of  dread,  and  knowing 
that  the  very  worst  which  might  be  sent  to  startle  him  could 
only  be  the  anticipation  of  an  inevitable  certainty — his  past  hfe 
rose  jp  before  him.  The  carelessness  of  his  boyhood — the  open 
irreligion  of  his  manhood — the  cold  hardness  and  insensibility 
of  his  advancing  age  ;  all  marked  by  certain  positive  offences, 
and  mingled  into  one  huge  mass  of  sin,  by  the  misty  memories 
of  his  hah-forgotten  offences.  If  the  God  whom  he  professed  to 
worship  was  a  God  of  mercy ;  if  in  calling  Blanche  from  an  evil 
world,  He  was  but  calling  her  to  early  happiness ;  was  He  not 
also  a  God  of  judgment?  and  could  the  innocent  and  the  guilty, 
the  holy  and  the  unholy,  hope  to  meet  again  in  the  same 
heaven  ? 

It  was  a  question  which,  when  once  suggested,  could  not  be 
put  aside.  It  followed  him  by  day  as  well  as  night ;  it  intruded 
into  his  transient  intervals  of  peace,  when  Blanche  seemed  more 
at  ease,  and  he  was  able  to  interest  and  amuse  her ;  it  pursued 
him,  as  a  spectre,  in  his  solitary  moments,  and  he  could  not 
speak  of  it,  or  find  relief  in  human  sympathy ;  for  he  had  lived 
to  himself,  until  the  very  thought  of  unreserve  was  abhorrent  to 
him.  Yet  misery  did  not  make  him  cold  and  harsh  ;  that 
could  not  be  when  he  was  watching  over  Blanche.  The  very 
tone  of  her  voice  was  soothing  and  softening  to  him,  and  some- 
times a  strange,  momentary  hopefulness  crossed  his  mind,  when 
she  in  any  way  alluded  to  the  future,  as  if  even  for  him  there 
might  also  be  pardon  and  rest.  But  it  could  not  stay,  for  was 
he  not  under  punishment  at  that  very  hour?  Had  not  the 
curse  of  his  early  sins  followed  him  through  long  years  of 
dreariness ;  and  had  it  not  fallen  now,  chiefly  by  his  means, 
ujion  the  only  being  whom  he  had  left  on  earth  to  love  ? 

And  with  these  thoughts  Lord  Rutherford  walked  alone  upon 
the  terrace  of  his  castle. 


CHAPTER  L. 

Blanche  watched  the  sunset  also  from  her  sofa,  which  had 
been  drawn  near  the  window  that  she  might  enjoy  it.  Maude 
was  with  her  ;  she  was  her  constant  nurse  in  Lord  Rutherford's 
absence,  and  Blanche  had  no  longer  reason  to  dread  her  cou- 
sin's moodiness  and  sharpness.     Soon  after  the  announcement 


THE    earl's    daughter.  313 

of  Adelaide's  marriage,  Claude's  manner  had  quite  cban-^ed. 
Blanche  thought  it  must  be  from  pity  :  but  Maude's  sympathies 
were  not  easily  called  forth,  even  by  illness;  and  many  times  before, 
when  Blanche  had  needed  it,  she  had  withheld  it.  Neither 
was  pity  the  proper  term  for  Maude's  devoted  attention.  It 
was  too  silent  and  thoughtful,  as  if  offered  to  a  superior ;  and 
Blanche,  injier  humility,  would  not  have  supposed  it  possible 
that  Maude  could  look  upon  her  in  such  a  light.  The  tirmness 
of  cli^iracter  she  had  shown,  and  which  was  made  known  to 
Maude  by  conversation  with  Lord  Rutherford,  had  produced  an 
efiect  which  Blanche  would  never  have  imagined ;  for  Maude 
could  not  be  brought  to  confess  that  she  had  suspected  unjustly  ; 
and  if,  from  that  time,  she  pondered  more  deeply  upon  the 
principles  by  which  Blanche  w:\s  actuated,  and  oftener  asked 
herself  whether  they  might  not,  after  all,  contain  the  truths  for 
which  she  was  herself  seeking,  no  one  was  allowed  to  guess  the' 
thoughts  that  were  working  in  her  breast,  except  by  her  actions. 

They  were  reconciled  without  explanation  ;  but  Blanche 
many  times  wished  hei-self  strong  enough  to  bear  a  recurrence 
to  those  painful  scenes ;  and  Mau<le's  conscience,  when  it 
reproached  her  for  false  shame,  urged  her  at  least  to  make  repa- 
ration in  deed,  by  insisting  upon  accompanying  Blanche  to 
Rutherford,  and  nursing  her  during  her  illness.  This  was  no  act 
of  self-denial  ;  for  self-denial,  except  when  it  involved  some 
tangible  got)d  to  others,  was  not  part  of  Maude's  creed  of  duty. 
But  she  knew  that  she  might  be  of  use,  and  thought  it  probable 
that  she  might  be  a  comfort  ;  and,  for  herself,  the  i:iscination 
which  had  drawn  her  towards  Blanche  in  health,  acted  with 
tenfold  intensity  in  illness. 

To  be  with  her  was  to  find  rest,  at  least  for  the  hour — r  st 
fronf  the  despairing  search  after  truth  by  the  light  of  her  own 
intellect,  in  the  cahii,  abiding  faith,  of  one  who  had  received  and 
followed  it  from  infancy. 

Yet  they  were  mournful  days  for  Maude  ;  this  one  especially 
had  been  trying.  The  farewell  visit  to  Mrs.  Wentworth  had 
been  a  greater  effort  than  Blanche  was  equal  to,  and  she  had 
suflered  much  in  consequence.  In  itself  it  must,  at  all  events, 
have  been  very  ])ainful,  and  the  ])ain  was  increased  by  the  recol- 
lections which  it  excited,  and  which  Blanche  could  not  entirely 
overcome  ;  although  she  had  been  assured  again  and  again,  by 
I»r.  Wentworth  himself,  that  gratitude  rather  than  reproach  was 
due  to  her.  Blanche  tried  to  believe  that  she  had  acb'd  rightly  ; 
the  did  bt-lieve  it  in  her  heart  ;  yet  tlie  sight  of  Mrs.  Wentr 


314  THE    earl's    daughter. 

worth's  vacant  countenance,  the  wreck  of  all  that  had  once  been 
so  noble,  was  a  feaiful  shock.  The  question  would  arise,  in 
spite  of  herself — Had  she  not  in  some  way  been  instrumental 
in  causing  it?  And  it  was  not  till  after  a  visit  from  Dr. 
Wentworth,  who  came  to  her  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon, 
that  she  could  in  any  degree  recover  her  former  composure. 

Still  she  did  not  regret  the  exertion  she  had  made.  It  had 
been  her  own  wish  to  pay  the  hist  respect  that  might  be  in  her 
I)ower  to  her  mother's  early  friend  ;  and  Eleanor  had  entered 
into  the  idea,  with  the  faint  hope  that  the  excitement  might  pro- 
duce a  favourable  effect  upon  Mrs.  Wentworth. 

Maude  had  urged  delay.  She  said  that  Blanche  was  leaving 
Rutherford  tor  a  time  only,  and  might  return  better  able  jo  bear 
the  interview.  But  Blanche  would  not  allow  herself  to  trust  to 
this  hope.  Hope,  indeed,  it  could  scarcely  be  called.  She  knew 
her  own  symptoms  too  well,  and  could  read  the  countenances 
of  those  about  her  too  truly  to  admit  of  hope.  Her  daily 
prayer,  her  daily  lesson,  now,  was  not  to  desire  it. 

We  may  believe  that  there  is  always  one  last  trial  to  be 
endured,  one  last  grace  to  be  acquired  by  those  whom  God 
visits  with  lingering  illness.  They  to  whom  life  is  fraught  with 
care,  and  the  thought  of  the  grave  full  of  the  rest  for  which 
they  sigh,  can  little  know  the  awfulness  of  that  moment  which 
first  brings  the  young  and  the  hopeful  in  sight  of  death. 
Blanche's  short  life  had  been  burdened  with  many  disappoint- 
ments, many  anxieties  ;  and,  in  the  time  of  heahh,  she  had 
often  thought  of  the  blessedness  of  an  early  removal  from 
temptation,  and  believed  that  she  could  welcome  it.  The  bless- 
ing was  sent,  and  she  trembled  at  it.  It  was  not  strange.  She 
did  not  know  till  then  how  dear  life  was  to  her  ;  she  did  not 
know  now  she  valued  the  familiar  faces  of  those  even  who  she 
supposed  did  not  suit  her  ;  she  did  not  understand  how  much 
she  clung  to  sights,  and  sounds,  and  associations,  and  memo- 
ries, which  came  and  went  almost  without  notice,  but  which 
constituted  the  amusement  of  existence.  She  did  not  know  how 
precious  her  father's  love  was,  how  she  rested  upon  it  and  trusted 
to  it  for  protection.  The  prospect  of  death  at  a  distance,  and 
the  actual  waiting  for  its  approach,  were  very  different. 

She  gazed  upon  the  sunset  now,  with  Maude  sitting  beside 
her,  and  supporting  her  that  she  might  be  better  able  to  watch 
it  ;  but  they  were  both  silent.  Blanche's  memory  had  travelled 
back  to  the  evening  when  she  first  saw  that  glorious  view  ; 
when  her  father  welcomed   her  to  her  home  :    and    Maude's 


THE    earl's     daughter.  315 

thoughts  had  wandered  onwards  into  the  dark  future  of  earth 
and  the  dim  awfuhiess  of  eternity. 

Maude  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence.  "  One  shouUl  like 
to  follow  it,"  she  said  ;  "  to  know  where  it  goes.  One  cannot 
imagine  it  still  lighting  up  this  world." 

"  I  should  be  sorr}'  to  realize  that  it  did,"  answered  Blanche. 
"  Sunset  hae  ahva3-s  been  m_v  most  vivid  idea  of  Heaven." 

"  It  is  too  sad  for  Heaven,"  said  Maude.  "  Even  as  a  child, 
onejfelt  its  sadness." 

The  eyes  of  Blanche  filled  with  tears.  "  It  ought  not  to  be 
sad,"  she  replied  ;  "  so  beautiful  it  is  in  itself,  and  with  hope  to 
make  it  more  so.  If  one  did  not  regret  this  world,  it  would  be 
joyful." 

"  Yet  there  is  little  enough  here  to  tempt  one  to  regret,"  said 
Maude. 

"  Do  you  think  so  V  asked  Blanche,  earnestly,  and  with  a 
touching,  child-like  simplicity,  as  if  really  wishing  to  hear 
Maude's  answer. 

It  was  not  given  directly.  Maude's  eyes  dwelt  upon  the 
crimson  light,  which,  although  the  sun  had  sunk  behind  the 
hills,  still  flooded  the  western  horizon,  spreading  itself  tar  and 
wide,  till  it  melted  imperceptil>ly  into  a  taint  ethereal  blue.  "  It 
is  glorious,  most  glorious,"  she  exclaimed  ;  "  but  it  is  too  much 
— one  cannot  gra^p  it." 

"And  one  can  grasp  earth,"  said  Blanche,  with  a  sigh. 

"  Grasp  it,  and  find  it  ashes,"  replied  Maude,  bitterly ;  "  some 
do,  at  least ;  not  you,  Blanche." 

"  I  have  had  a  very  happy  life,"  said  Blanche ;  "  every  one 
has  been  very  kind  to  me.     I  should  like  to  thank  them." 

Maude  turned  round  quickly ;  "  Now  do  you  mean  ?  Because 
you  are  going  away  T' 

"Not  to-night:  lam  so  tired  :  but  I  should  like  every  one 
to  know  that  I  have  thought  about  them.  If  you  come  back 
again,  Maude,  will  you  tell  them  so  ?" 

"  You  must  tell  them  yourself,  then,  dear  child,"  said  Maude, 
kissing  her. 

Blanche  looked  earnestly  in  her  foce,  and  answered,  "I 
should  like  to  say  things  out  plainly  to  you ;  but  I  cannot ;  if 
you  do  not  understand." 

"  I  do — ^I  do  understand,"  replied  Maude,  her  voice  sounding 
hollow  with  the  effort  to  appear  calm. 

"  I  shall  not  come  back,"  said  ] Mancho.  "  Even  pa]>a  does 
Dot  really  think  so ;  and  I  should  like  to  tell  you  now  what  to 


31G  THE    earl's    daughter. 

do  witli  some  of  my  things — my  books,  and  pictures,  and  oriut 
ments.  I  tliink  about  them  a  good  deal,  and  I  don't  wish  t<j 
do  so ;  and  if  I  might  say  to  you  what  I  should  like  to  have 
done  with  them,  it  would  be  off  my  mind." 

"  But  nf>t  to-night,  dearest,"  said  Maude. 

'*  No  ;  perhaps  not  to-night :  but  to-morrow  ;  the  first  thing, 
I  should  wish  it.  You  see,  Maude,  I  may  not  have  very  much 
time  before  me,  though  papa  and  Dr.  Granville  say  the  sea-air 
will  do  me  good;  and  if  I  could  settle  about  it  all,  and  say 
good  b'ye  to  every  one,  and  thank  them,  I  should  not  have- such 
wandering  thoughts  ;  at  least  I  hope  not." 

Maude  bent  her  head  upon  the  sofa ;  her  tears  were  uncon- 
trollable. Blanche  put  her  arm  round  her,  as  she  had  some- 
times been  wont  to  do  in  her  days  of  health,  and  speaking  quite 
calmly  said,  "  You  must  not  fret  about  me,  Maude,  and  fancy  I 
am  worse  because  I  speak  so  ;  I  only  do  it  because  of  something 
Dr.  Wentworth  said  yesterday.  When  he  has  come  to  see  me 
lately  he  has  been  very  kind,  and  I  have  been  able  to  talk  to 
him  ;  and  he  understands — he  knows  what  I  feel." 

"  About  being  ill  ?"  asked  Maude." 

"  About  death  !"  said  Blanche.  She  waited  for  a  moment, 
and  closed  her  eyes  as  if  praying  mentally ;  then  she  said, 
"  if  I  were  very  good,  I  should  not  be  afraid ;  but  I  cannot 
quite  help  it." 

"  No  one  can  help  it,  I  should  think,"  replied  Maude. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  some  persons  can  :  but  Dr.  AVentworth  says 
they  are  generally  persons  who  are  older  and  have  suffered 
more  ;  and  you  know,  Maude,  I  have  always  had  some  one  to 
depend  upon,  and  take  care  of  me ;  and^but  that  is  wicked — 
because  I  have  no  faith,"  she  added. 

"  If  I  were  like  you,"  began  Maude,  quickly  ;  "  and  had  lived 
the  life  you  have — " 

Blanche  interrupted  her ;  "  Maude,  dear,  yoii  will  not  say 
things  which  vex  me,  now  we  have  so  little  time  to  be  together. 
But  I  don't  think  the  fear  I  have  is  so  much  about  all  I  have 
done  wrong;  there  is  such  great,  great  hope  of  forgiveness. 
But,  even  then,  it  is  so  awful,  so  lonely  ;  if  some  one  could  go 
with  me — papa,  or  Mrs.  Howard,  or  you.  I  have  never  been 
alone  all  my  life.  I  wonder  what  it  will  be  like.  Oh,  Maude, 
can  you  think  ?"  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  as  if 
shrinking  from  the  thought ;  when  she  looked  up  again,  all 
was  peaceful.  "  It  is  over  now,"  she  said,  hea\ing  a  sigh  of 
relisf ;  "  it  comes  and  goes — the  dark  hour,  as  Dr.  Wentworth 


THK    earl's    daughter.  317 

calls  it.  But  he  says  I  shall  feel  it  less,  if  I  pray  ;  and,  Maude, 
you  will  do  to-raorrow  what  I  asked  ?  because  I  am  to  put 
away  my  cares  for  this  world,  even  the  very  little  ones,  and 
then  there  will  be  nothing  to  come  between  me  and  mj 
Saviour." 

"  There  can  be  very  little  now,"  said  Maude,  tenderly. 

Blanclie-  shook  her  head.  "  Ah  !  Maude,  you  don't  know 
I  did  not  know  till  lately  ;  but  you  will  hear  all  I  have  to  sav 
an(l.  promise  to  do  it  all ;  will  you  not  ?  and  now,  please.,  if 
papa  will  come  and  real  to  me,  I  should  like  to  go  to  bed." 

Maude  went  to  call  the  earl ;  and,  whilst  the  last  gleam  of 
sunlight  was  fading  away,  they  knelt  together  and  joined  in  the 
few  short  prayers,  which  were  all  that  Blanche  could  bear  after 
that  day  of  excitement.  Then  Maude  kissed  her,  and  said. 
"  Good  night,"  and  the  earl  lifted  her  in  his  arms  and  carried 
her  to  her  room. 


CHAPTER  LL 

Maude  remained  by  herself,  thinking.  At  other  times  she 
could  philosophize  upon  general  principles,  abstract  theories, 
the  ultimate  destinies  of  mankind  ;  but  there  was  oidy  one 
question  «ow  for  her  consideration— the  question  which  must 
sooner  or  later  be  brought  before  us  all — what  was  to  be  the 
ultimate  destiny  of  each  individual  soul — of  Blanche,  of  herself? 

IIow  she  longed  then  for  Blanche's  simple  faith  ;  the  vi\nd- 
ness  with  which  she  must  realize  all  that  belonged  to  the  unseen 
world,  to  be  able  to  say  so  quietly  and  confidently,  "There  will 
be  nothing  then  to  come  between  me  and  my  Saviour." 

It  was  true,  actual,  as  if  she  had  spoken  of  an  earthly  friend. 
And  even  her  fears  were  natural,  neither  exaggeratt^d  nor 
excited,  only  the  awe  which  one  so  young,  and  tender,  and 
helpless,  could  scarcely  fail  to  experience  in  the  first  near  pros- 
pect of  entering  upon  a  new  existence. 

It  was  very  strange  to  Maude,  a  problem  she  could  not  solve, 
for  it  was  not  merely  the  result  of  education,  the  having  been 
t^iught  to  believe.  She  had  been  taught  also ;  but  what  to  her 
was  an  idea,  solemn  and  important,  yet  still  only  an  idea,  w:is  to 
Blanche  an  all-absorbing  reality.  Some  real  dWerencc  there  muEt 
be  between  them  ;  and  that  not  a  ditli-rence  which  might  safely 
be  borne  with,  like  any  other  diversity  of  taste  or  sentiment — 


318  THE      earl's      D  aught  Ell. 

deatli -was  a  fact  vvliich  admitted  of  no  "halti no;  between  Iwc 
oiiiuions."  If,  in  order  to  support  the  prospect  of  it,  calmly,  a 
'M'e  like  that  of  Blanclie  was  necessary,  then  Maude's  dreamy, 
philosophical  speculations  and  indolent  jiractice,  must  be  dan- 
tjerous.  Maude's  inherent  energy  of  mind  Avas  aroused  by  the 
thought.  Hitherto,  it  had  been  spent  in  the  study  of  abstruse 
ouestions  ;  now,  it  was  directed  to  practice.  And  she  had  full 
leisure  for  consideration — for  the  twilight  sank  into  darkness, 
and  the  darkness  was  exchanged  for  the  brilliancy  of  moonlight, 
and  still  she  was  alone  with  her  own  thoughts  and  the  awfuliicss 
of  the  silent  night.  Lord  Rutherford  came  to  her  once,  but  it 
was  only  to  say  that  she  must  not  mind  being  left  by  herself, 
for  Blanche  wanted  him  ;  and  Maude  knew  well  what  that 
meant.  It  was  the  case  every  evening.  lie  professed  to  be 
with  her  when  Blanche  was  gone  to  bed,  but  he  never  remained 
for  more  than  a  few  minutes.  If  Blanche  was  wakeful,  he  sat 
in  her  room  foncying  she  would  want  him  ;  and  if  she  was 
asleep,  he  lingered  in  the  outer  apartment,  listening  for  any 
sound  or  movement.  Since  they  came  to  Rutherford  he  had 
chosen  to  sleep  in  a  room  close  to  hers ;  but  this  did  not  satisfy 
him,  and  again  and  again,  in  the  course  of  the  night,  he  would 
steal  into  her  chamber  to  look  at  her,  as  if  fearful  that  during 
those  short  hours  of  absence,  death  would  remove  from  him 
without  warning  the  treasure  in  which  his  heart  delighted. 

The  next  day  was  to  be  the  last  but  one  of  their  stay  at 
Rutherford.  Afterwards  they  were  to  move  by  easy  stages  to 
the  sea-side,  as  Blanche  could  bear  the  journey  ;  and,  if  she 
found  herself  sufficiently  strengthened  to  endure  a  further  change, 
it  was  proposed  to  take  her  for  about  a  fortnight  to  St.  Ebbe's, 
that  she  might  pay  a  parting  visit  to  Mrs.  Howard  before  leav- 
ing England.  So  they  planned — the  earl.  Dr.  Granville,  and 
Maude — when  she  was  called  in  to  the  consultation,  neither 
choosing  to  allow  what  was  in  all  their  thoughts,  and  satisfying 
themselves  by  the  expectation  that  sea-air  would  bring  a  respite 
of  the  evil  day,  though  it  could  never  work  a  restoration  to 
health.  Blanche  gave  no  voice  on  the  question  ;  she  had  but 
one  wish — to  do  what  was  considered  best.  Submission  was 
her  last  trial  of  duty,  and  the  little  energy  which  remained  to 
her  was  exercised  in  disciplining  herself  into  quiet  acquiescence 
with  whatever  might  be  deemed  beneficial.  And  there  was  one 
part  of  the  projected  plan  which,  as  the  earl  had  anticipated 
when  it  was  formed,  reconciled  her  to  it  in  the  whole.  Even 
her  love  for  Rutherford  was  scarcely  equal  to  the  depth  of  inte- 


THE      EAUl's      daughter.  31(; 

rest  and  cfratitude  with  wliich  she  thought  of  St.  Ebbe's.  When 
life  is  faihng,  and  the  future  in  this  world  becoming  blank, 
memory  returns  with  affection,  tenfold  increased,  to  the  scenes 
and  the  events  of  the  past :  and  where  could  Blanche  lind  any 
recollections  so  calm,  and  holy,  and  bright,  as  those  which  were 
associated  with  St.  Ebbe's  ?  Once  more  to  see  it ;  once  more  to 
see  her  e§j'liest  and  truest  friend  ;  once  more  to  thank  her  for 
her  loving  care,  her  prayers,  her  counsel ;  to  tell  her,  if  time 
should  be  granted,  the  short  history  of  those  few  months — few 
in  number  but  infinite  in  importance — which  hao  constituted 
the  actual  trial  of  her  young  life,  and  then  to  die  ; — where,  when, 
how — as  God  in  His  wisdom  should  appoint ;  that  was  her  last 
eager  wish,  the  last  earthly  craving  of  her  heart. 

They  were  together  again,  Maude  and  Blanche,  the  following 
morning.  Business  which  the  earl  could  not  postpone  had 
called  him  for  an  hour  away,  and  Blanche,  feeling  stronger  after 
her  night's  rest,  was  sitting  nearly  upright  on  the  sofo,  with  her 
jewel-case  on  a  little  stand  by  her  ;  whilst  Maude,  with  a  pencil 
and  paper  in  her  hand,  was  writing  down  her  wishes  respecting 
her  ornaments.  They  were  both  very  quiet  and  composed  ;  no 
one  coming  into  the  room  would  have  supposed  that  they  were 
engaged  in  anything  more  painful  than  usual,  except  at  occa- 
sional moments,  when  a  torrent  of  recollections  rushed  upon 
Blanche  as  she  looked  at  some  present  from  her  father,  and 
putting  it  aside  would  say  perhaps  that  she  could  not  give 
that  away;  she  would  rather  he  should  keep  it  as  part  of 
herself. 

"  You  shall  let  him  have  the  paper,  dear  Maude,"  she  said, 
when  the  task  was  nearly  completed.  "  He  will  like  to  see  that 
it  is  all  done  himself,  by-and-by  ;  though  I  cannot  t;dk  to  him 
about  it  now.  And  if  there  is  anything  left  that  I  have  for- 
gotten, and  he  does  not  know  quite  what  to  do  with  it,  will  you 
and  Eleanor  help  him  ?  for  you  will  be  friends  with  poor  Eleanor 
for  my  sake,  Avont  you  ?" 

Maude's  reply  was  inarticulate,  though  she  tried  to  speak. 

"  And  one  tbing  more  may  I  say  to  you,  dear  Maude  ?"  con- 
tinued Blanche,  earnestly.  "I  long  to  have  it  all  off  my  mind 
this  morning,  tliat  I  may  tell  Dr.  Wentworth  I  have  done  what 
he  wished  when  he  comes  this  afternoon." 

"  If  you  talk  much  you  will  not  be  able  to  see  him,"  said 
Maude,  kindly.     "  Vou  are  quite  overworked  as  it  is." 

"It  will  take  iMit  a  few  minutes,"  replied  Blanche,  "and  to- 
morrow I  shuulil  like  to  have  quite  free,  because  — " 


320  THE    earl's    daughteu. 

"  Yes,''  interrupted  Maude,  quickly ;  "  I  know.  Go  on,  if  you 
wish  it." 

Blaiiclie  waited  for  an  instant.  A  thought  of  bitterness  was 
to  be  struggled  with  and  conquered  ;  that  lier  father,  changed 
though  he  was  in  many  ways,  shrunk  from  the  idea  of  being 
with  her  when  she  received  the  Iloly  Communion.  Presently, 
she  said  to  Maude,  "  That  was  a  sad  time  at  Senilhui-st.  I  don't 
like  tliinking  about  it ;  but  I  am  afraid  sometimes  that  I  must 
have  seemed  wrong  in  what  I  did,  and  I  know  I  was  cross  with 
you.  Wont  you  give  me  a  kiss,  now,  and  tell  me  you  forgive 
me  ?" 

It  was  all  Maude  could  do  to  answer  ;  but  she  did  say,  "  It 
was  I  who  was  wrong  and  cross,  and  want  to  be  forgiven ;"  and 
then  she  gave  the  kiss  that  was  asked,  and  both  were  happier. 

"  There  is  a  bracelet  for  Adelaide  in  my  dressing-case,"  said 
Blanche,  after  a  short  pause.  "  It  is  too  gay  for  your  taste, 
Maude ;  she  will  value  it,  at  least  I  hope  she  will,  by-and-by, 
because  my  aunt  gave  it  me." 

"  A  long  by-and-by  that  will  be,"  observed  Maude,  speaking 
her  thoughts  aloud. 

"  Not  so  long,  I  hope,  as  you  fiincy,"  replied  Blanche,  cheer- 
fully ;  adding,  in  a  graver  tone,  whilst  she  locked  steadily  at 
Maude  to  see  whether  she  understood  her,  "  I  could  almost 
blame  myself  sometimes,  when  I  think  of  the  break-up  of  all 
your  family  happiness." 

"  There  never  was  happiness  with  us,"  replied  Maude,  with 
emjihasis;  "never,  as  far  back  as  I  can  remember.  When  I 
was  a  child  of  seven  years  old,  I  felt  the  hollowness  and  unreality 
of  all  about  me.  Nothing  that  you  could  have  done  or  said, 
Blanche,  would  have  made  things  better  than  they  are." 

"I  hope  not,"  replied  Blanche  ;  "yet  even  if  I  could " 

Maude  finished  her  sentence  ;  "  you  would  not  have  been 
right  in  yielding ;  no,  indeed,  I  feel  that :  you  must  be  quite 
assured  I  do ;"  and  Maude  smiled  brightly,  and  almost  sweetly, 
for  even  this  slight  acknowledgment  was  a  weight  removed  from 
her  mind. 

"  If  I  had  given  way,  I  should  have  been  very  sorry  after- 
wards," said  Blanche.  "  That  is  one  thing  for  which  I  have  so 
much  cause  to  thank  Mrs.  Howard,  that  she  taught  me  in  diffi- 
culties to  look  at  actions  as  I  should  look  upon  them  when — 
when  I  was  as  I  am  now — dying." 

Maude's  fjice  showed,  though  unconsciously  to  herself,  thfc 
pain  which  any  allusion  to  Blanche's  state  gave  her. 


THE      E..  RLS      DAUGIITEU.  3'21 

"  I  dill  not  mean  to  grieve  you,  dear  Maude,"  said  Blanc'.io, 
taking  her  hand  atlectionately  ;  "  but  it  is  always  in  my  own 
thoughts,  and  so  I  forget  that  it  may  not  always  be  in  others 
And  it  makes  all  thing's  so  ditierent  ;  so  wry,  very  different.  1 
can't  exactly  tell  you  what  it  is  like  ;  but,  in  a  way,  it  is  as  if 
one  had  been  amusing  oneself  with  what  seemed  to  be  a  doll,  a 
plaything,^  and  suddenly,  whilst  one  held  it  in  one's  hand,  it 
had  started  into  life,  and  become  a  living  being.  All  the  past 
is  so  awfully  real.  I  feel,"  she  added,  her  chtek  becoming 
flusued  with  excitement  ;  "  I  feel  that  it  cannot  die  with  me — 
that  it  must  live  on  here — working  for  good  or  for  evil.  That 
one  action,  especiallv,  would  have  been  very  dreadful,  Maude, 
to  think  of  now  ;  would  it  not  ?  To  have  been  the  means  of 
bringing  harm  upon  hundreds ;  and  to  know  that,  when  I  reas 
resting  in  my  grave,  it  would  still  be  spreading.  Oh  !  Maade, 
sometimes  I  think  that  even  Ileaven  itself  could  not  be  Heaven 
with  such  a  thought." 

Maude  was  saved  the  pain  of  reply,  for  Lord  Rutherford 
came  into  the  room.  Blanche  hastily  closed  her  jewel  case,  and 
welcoming  liim  with  a  smile,  told  him  she  had  been  better  all 
the  morning,  and  was  better  then  :  only  she  had  tired  herself 
with  gi\ing  some  directions. 

"  You  were  unwise  to  trouble  yourself,  my  darling,"  was  the 
earl's  reply  ;  "trust  to  Maude  and  Barnes  ;  I  am  sure  they  will 
do  everytiiing  you  wish." 

Blanche  was  silent.  Lord  Rutherford's  eye  accidentally  fell 
upon  the  paper  which  Maude  had  been  writing  ;  it  wjis  merely 
I.  list  of  different  articles,  with  names  attached  to  them  ;  but 
love  has  a  piercing  sight  ;  he  understood  it  in  an  instant. 

"I  will  take  it,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand  as  Maude 
foldea  the  paper,  and  was  going  to  put  it  hurriedly  fiside. 
Maude  gave  it  him  and  left  the  room. 

Blanche  raised  her  eyes  to  meet  her  father's  ;  he  was  very 
pale,  but  his  voice  scarcely  trembled  as  he  said,  "  It  shall  all  be 
done;"  and  placing  the  paper  carefully  in  his  pocket-book,  he 
walked  to  the  window. 


CHAPTER   LH. 

AxD  now  it  was  all  arranged,  all  settled,  and  ordered  ;  and 
Blanche  had  gone  through  the  trying  service  for  which  she  had 


322  THE    earl's    daughter. 

been  preparinir,  and  said  lier  last  words  of  gratitude  to  Th. 
Wentworlli,  and  told  biin  lie  had  comforted  her  and  helped  her, 
and  begged  him  to  write  to  her  when  she  was  away  ;  and 
Maude  had  received  every  minute  direction  as  to  her  cousin's 
wisiies,  in  case  she  shonld  never  return  to  Rutherford  ;  and  the 
earl  had  j)leased  iiimself — for  the  moment  it  was  really  a  plea- 
sure, though  a  melanchol}'  one — in  contri\nng  everything  for  the 
journey,  so  as  to  save  Blanche,  as  far  as  lay  in  the  power  of 
human  ingenuity,  from  the  otlierwise  unavoidable  fatigues  of  a 
journey.  Jlis  spirits  rather  ralHed  under  tlie  pressure  of  occu- 
jiation  ;  and  a  flickering  hope  began  again  to  burn  feebly  in  his 
bre;ist.  The  physician  had  spoken  so  contidently  of  the  benefit 
of  sea-air,  he  thought  it  might  work  an  improvement,  or  it 
might  at  least  delay  the  progress  of  disease  ;  and  Blanche  had, 
undoubtedly,  appeared  stronger  the  last  few  days  ;  she  had 
borne  the  preparation  for  removal  much  better  than  any  one 
anticipated.  It  was  a  natural  delusion,  and  neither  Blanche 
nor  ^iaude  were  unwilling  to  foster  it.  Both  felt  that  even  a 
deceitful  hope  was  better,  at  that  moment,  than  the  despairing 
certainty  which  would  have  rendered  exertion  almost  impossible. 
Tri.e,  tliey  might  under  such  circumstances  have  remained  at 
Rutherford  ;  but  Blanche  herself  was  beginning  not  lo  wish  for 
this.  She  thought  it  likely  that  the  sea-air  might  invigorate 
her,  and  erable  her  to  visit  St.  Ebbe's  with  something  of  enjoy- 
ment ;  and  she  looked  forward  to  the  possibility  with  that 
last  hngering  of  earthly  satisfaction,  which  even  the  near  pros- 
pect of  Eternity  cannot  quench  in  the  bosom  of  the  young. 
And  there  was  another  reason  for  her  wish,  very  difierent  and 
wholly  unselfish.  If  she  left  Rutherford  now,  there  was,  she 
was  well  aware,  no  probability  of  her  return.  When  and  where 
her  last  moments  would  be  spent,  God  only  knew  ;  but  at 
least  her  father  would  be  spared  the  pain  of  associating  them 
with  his  home.  He  would  not  watch  over  her,  day  by  day,  and 
accustom  himself  to  see  her  in  the  same  room,  the  same  posi- 
tion, and  then  suddenly  miss  her  from  her  place.  Dreary  as 
Rutherford  would,  under  any  circumstances,  be  without  her,  the 
shock  of  the  separation  would  be  broken  by  their  present 
removal  ;  and  her  father  would  not  so  probably  be  tempted,  as 
she  had  sometimes  feared  he  might  be,  to  rush  from  it  in 
despair  ;  and  again,  leaving  the  sphere  of  his  Juties,  find  refuge 
in  solitary  misery  abroad.  Yet  the  last  evening  in  that  her  only 
real  home  was  a  grievous  trial,  for  it  was  the  first  step  towards 
the  final  breakiijg-up  of  earthly  ties  which  she  knew  was  before 


THE    earl's    daughter.  323 

her.  As  slie  lay  xipon  the  sofa  by  herself,  whilst  Maude  was 
engaged  with  her  maid  in  the  bed-room,  and  Lord  Rutherford 
<vas  talking  to  the  steward  in  his  study,  she  had  leisure  for 
thought,  if  she  had  been  sufficiently  strong.  But  she  was  not 
she  could  only  suffer  fancies  to  pass  before  her  ;  she  couk 
not  control  them  :  they  were  almost  all  of  one  kind — of 
her  father,  and  her  mother — her  unhappy,  but  dearly  cherished 
mother — the  thought  of  whom  seemed  to  give  a  resting- 
place  to  her  human  affections,  when  she  fancied  to  herself 
ihe  entrance  upon  another  world.  Leaving  Rutherford  seemed 
almost  like  deserting  the  countess's  memory.  It  was  the 
only  place  in  which  Blanche  had  learnt  to  know  her.  She 
wished  she  could  go  again  into  her  room,  to  say  farewell,  as  it 
were,  to  that  which  mostly  had  belonged  to  her.  It  was  a 
strange  mixture  of  feeling  ;  the  vision  of  her  mother,  at  rest  as 
she  believed  her  to  be,  and  waiting  to  receive  her,  was  less  vivid 
than  the  earthly  image  conjured  up  by  her  books  and  pic- 
tures, in  the  dreary  desolate  chamber,  which  told  so  ti'uly  the 
history  of  her  life.  Sight  triumphed  over  foith,  and  tears  of 
pity  rose  to  Blanche's  eves  ;  and  all  other  feelings  were  forgotten 
in  the  intensity  of  longing,  that  she  had  been  permitted  to  know 
her,  to  live  with  her  and  comfort  her.  That  woukl  have  changed 
the  whole  current  of  her  life  ;  it  might  have  made  her  a  differ- 
ent person.  Yet  it  must  have  been,  in  a  measure,  a  barrier 
between  her  and  her  father,  and  Blanche  turned  away  from  such 
a  thought  ;  for  how  dearly  she  loved  him  she  was  just  begin- 
ning to  feel.  Oh  !  if  they  could  but  have  been  as  ■>ne  !  If 
now,  when  about  to  leave  her  father  alone,  she  could  at  least 
restore  to  him  the  peace  of  mind  of  which  the  remembrance  of 
her  mother  had  robbed  him !  Then,  it  seemed,  she  could  die 
happy,  for  she  would  leave  him  at  rest  ;  and  something  whis- 
pered to  her  that,  if  the  bitterness  of  remote  was  soothed,  his 
mind  would  be  more  open  to  the  principles  and  hopes  of  religion. 
Blanche  wsxs  thinking  upon  these  thing-s  when  she  was 
aroused  by  a  gentle  tap  at  the  door,  almost  immediately  fol- 
lowed by  the  entrance  of  Eleanor  Wentworth.  This  w:is  the 
first  day  for  nearly  a  week  that  they  had  met ;  and  before,  they 
Had  scarcely  been  together  for  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
at  a  time.  Mrs.  Wentworth's  claims  upon  Eleanor's  attention 
were  incessant.  No  one  else  suited  her  ;  and  her  disposition, 
which  perhaps  in  its  original  nature  was  exacting,  as  regarded 
those  she  loved,  was  now  become  so  jealous  and  excitable,  that 
it  was  painful  to  thwart  her.     It  might   liave  Ixon  from   tliii 


324  THE    earl's    daughter. 

cause  that  Eleanor  was  altered.  Constant  watchfulness  and 
arixiety  will  work  sad  changes  in  a  very  short  space  of  time,  and 
Eleanor's  foce  told  a  tale  of  great  trial  in  her  daily  life.  Or 
there  might  have  been  a  deeper  cause  for  the  alteration — regret 
and  self-reproach  for  the  past,  and  forebodings  of  evil  to  come. 
The  experience  of  one  3'ear,  had  brought  memories  which  mus^ 
last  for  life  ;  and  they  had  robbed  her  voice  of  its  joyous  tone, 
and  had  quenched  the  sparkle  of  her  eye,  and  subdued  the  elas- 
ticity of  her  step  :  and  when  friends  pitied  her,  and  her  father 
caressed  her,  Eleanor  would  often  turn  away  in  apparent  cold- 
ness, but  real  wretchedness,  because  she  knew  that  the  griefs 
which  excited  their  compassion  were  the  consequences  of  her 
own  miscondact. 

It  was  only  with  Blanche  that  she  was  quite  free.  Blanche 
knew  everything  ;  all  her  resolutions  and  her  failings,  her  temj)- 
tations  and  her  weakness.  She  could  go  back  with  her  to  their 
simple  life  at  St.  Ebbe's,  and  recal  the  serious  devotedness  of 
purpose  with  which  they  had  knelt  together  at  their  confirma- 
tion ;  the  earnestness  and  awe  with  which  they  had  afterwards 
received  their  first  Communion,  and  the  energy  with  which  they 
had  entered  upon  the  duties  of  life — armed  by  the  same  coun- 
sel, and  animated  by  affection  for  the  same  friend.  Uow  widely 
siuce  that  time  their  paths  had  diverged  Eleanor  dreaded  to 
think.  Blanche,  purified  and  strengthened  by  illness,  was  so 
far  removed  from  herself  that  she  seemed  scarcely  like  a  crea- 
ture of  the  same  sphere.  Yet  still  she  understood;  still,  even 
before  Eleanor  could  venture  to  enter  upon  the  subject  of  her 
wanderings  from  the  right  path,  Blanche  seemed,  by  an  intui- 
tive perception,  to  comprehend  them  :  and  the  few  hours  which 
they  occasionally  spent  together,  were  seasons  of  salutary, 
though  mournful,  rest  to  poor  Eleanor's  wounded  spirit ;  and 
were  treasured  in  her  recollection  to  be  prized,  she  could  not 
yet  tell  how  dearly,  when  death  should  have  parted  them,  and 
there  should  be  no  one  left  to  whom  she  could  say,  "  So  we 
acted,"  or  "  so  we  thought  and  spoke,  when  we  were  children." 

For  it  was  not  yet  that  she  could  fully  understand  the  dan- 
ger of  Blanche's  state.  She  came  into  the  room  tliat  evening 
looking  almost  happy,  merely  because  Lord  Rutherford  had 
told  her  that  Blanche  was  much  better  than  they  could  have 
expected,  considering  all  she  had  gone  through  during  the 
(lay.  She  had  never  been  accustomed  to  the  fluctuations  of 
consumption ;  and  she  had  heard  of  persons  recovering  who 
«-ere  much  worse  than  she  imagined  Blanche  to  be ;  and,  san- 


THE    earl's    daughter.  32f; 

guiiie  by  nature,  she  could  not  divest  herself  of  hope.  Ilei 
spirits  also  had  for  the  hour  rallied  as  regarded  her  home-trial^ 
Iler  mother  seemed  tolerably  comfortable  ;  and  a  penitent, 
affectionate — though  melancholy — letter  had  been  received 
from  Charles,  which  had  softened  her  father's  feelings  and  melted 
his  indignation  into  pity.  It  was  this  subject  which  lii-st  suggested 
itself  wheiushe  found  that  Blanche  was  able  to  listen  to  her. 

"  I  would  have  brought  you  the  letter,  dear  Blanche,"  she 
fiai4,  as  she  took  off  her  bonnet  and  sat  down  by  the  sofa ; 
"  but  I  was  afraid  you  would  be  too  busy  and  tired  to  attend  to 
it.  I  don't  know  exactly  why  one  should  be  pleased  at  what  is 
evidently  written  very  much  out  of  spirits ;  but  it  is  the  tone 
which  papa  and  I  like.  There  is  so  much  feehng  for  us,  and  so 
much  thought  for  poor  mamma." 

"  And  Adelaide !  Does  she  write  too  ?"  asked  Blanche, 
always  ready,  even  when  weakened  by  illness,  to  throw  herself 
into  the  interests  of  others. 

"  She  sends  her  love  in  a  postscript ;  but  I  am  afraid  that  is 
only  a  matter  of  form.  It  is  about  her  that  Charles  is  worrying 
himself.  Sh«  is  just  beginning  to  feel  what  the  privations  of  a 
Soldier's  wife  are,  where  there  is  no  money ;  and  I  am  afraid 
she  reproaches  him.  She  need  not  do  that,  though,"  added 
Eleanor,  with  some  bitterness.  "  lie  has  sacrificed  as  much  for 
her  as  she  has  for  him." 

"They -will  be  happier  when  they  are  abroad,  I  hope,"  said 
Blanche.  "  There  will  not  be  the  same  looking-back  and 
longing  for  luxuries ;  and  I  think,  after  a  time,  my  aunt  and 
Sir  Hugh  will  forgive  them." 

"It  is  not  forgiveness  which  will  make  them  happy,"  said 
Eleanor,  with  a  heavy  sigh.  "  Two  people  utterly  unsuited 
must  be  miserable,  if  they  had  the  wealth  of  Peru  at  command. 
That  is  the  real  wretchedness,  and  that  is  what  I  reproach  my- 
self for.  I  knew  so  well,  from  the  very  beginning,  that  they 
were  no  more  fitted  for  each  other  than  I  am  to  bo  the  Queen  of 
England.  I  believe,  in  feet,  it  was  that  which  deluded  me.  I 
fancied  that  Charles  never  could  be  so  blind  as  really  to  fall  in 
love.  But,  Blanche,  I  want  to  talk  of  other  things  now,  other 
people  rather." 

"  Mrs.  Howard  and  St.  Ebbe's  ?"  said  Blanche,  with  a  smile 
of  interest. 

Eleanor  could  not  smile.  She  answered,  sadly,  "  Yes,  I  want 
to  talk  of  her,  and  to  send  a  message  ;  but  I  don't  exactly  know 
what.     You  must  tell  her — " 


326  THE    earl's    daughter. 

"  Everylliing  I  can  think  of  about  you,"  said  Blanche.  "  She 
will  want  to  know  everything." 

"  1  could  almost  make  U)>  iny  mind  to  write  to  her  by  you,' 
continued  Eleanor ;  "  but  there  is  so  much  that  I  dread  saying. 
She  knows  all  the  facts  about  me,  those  I  have  been  forced  to 
mention ;  but  there  are  other  things.  Oh,  Blanche !  what 
would  I  not  give  to  be  j^ou  ;  to  go  back  to  her  unchanged  !" 

]31anche  stretched  out  her  wasted  hand,  and  said,  "  Not  quite 
unchanged." 

"No,  not  unchanged  ;  you  are  right :  but  altered,  advanced, 
beyond,  far  beyond  whatever  she  would  have  imagined  possible. 
Do  you  know,  Blanche,  there  are  times  when  it  seems  actually 
impossible  that  we  could  ever  have  been  brought  up  together ; 
and  that  my  advantages  were  as  great,  even  greater  than  yours. 
I  cannot  understand  it,  till  I  retrace  it  all  step  by  step,  and  see 
how  I  have  gone  back." 

"  You  are  always  reproaching  yourself,  dearest,"  said  Blanche  ; 
"I  wish  I  could  feel  you  were  to  have  "happier  thoughts,  now 
that  I  am  going  away." 

"  Happier  when  you  are  away !"  exclaimed  Eleanor,  and 
tears  tilled  her  eyes  :  "that  would  be  impossible  ;  and  then  my 
mother — but  we  must  not  talk  about  her.  I  am  obliged  not 
to  think  more  than  I  can  help  ;  for  you  know,  Blanche,  I  cannot 
deceive  myself;  it  has  been  in  a  great  measure  my  doing  :  and 
that  was  what  I  wanted  to  say  to  Mrs.  Howard.  I  should  like 
her  to  know  the  worst ;  for  she  will  feel  for  me,  however  she 
may  blame  me." 

"  And  have  you  not  written  to  her  at  all,  lately  ?"  asked 
Blanche,  with  some  surprise. 

"  Yes,  in  a  certain  way  ;  I  have  written  facts — not  the  sort 
of  letters  she  would  wish  to  have,  I  know.  But  I  could  not 
bring  myself  to  do  it.  You  must  tell  her,  Blanche.  You 
must  talk  to  her  for  me.'' 

Blanche  hesitated.  "  If  I  am  able,"  she  said  ;  "  but  I  am 
not  going  there  directly ;  and  I  cannot  tell  how  I  may  be  when 
I  get  to  St  Ebbe's." 

Eleanor  read  what  was  in  her  mind,  though  for  the  moment 
the  th(jught  of  her  own  griefs  had  absorbed  her.  "  Blanche," 
she  said,  as  she  bent  down  and  kissed  her,  "  wherever  you  are, 
and  however  you  may  be,  you  will  be  happy."  She  waited 
eagerly  for  the  answer,  as  if  it  would  satisfy  some  rising  doubt 
in  her  own  mind. 


THE      EARLS      DAUGHTER.  327 

A  smile  of  inexpressible  sweetness  passed  over  Blanche's 
face,  "  Yes,  quite  happy — quite.  I  had  some  fears — the  dread 
of  loneliness — of  what,  perhaps,  I  am  to  suffer  at  the  last ;  but 
they  are  going.     I  do  not  wish  to  live." 

"  Papa  does  not  think  you  woi-se,"  said  Eleanor ;  "  and  Lord 
Rutherford  says  you  are  better." 

Blanch&^miled.  "  Yes,  dearest ;  and  I  am  not  worse  :  per- 
haps even  I  am  better.  I  may  linger — I  may  return  ;  but  it 
is  i»pt  probable — scarcely  possible." 

"  And  to  part  from  you  now,  for  ever  ;  to  live  without  you  I" 
v'xclaimed  Eleanor,  bursting  into  a  passionate  flood  of  tears. 
'  You  are  so  young  :  they  said  you  were  so  strong :  there  is  no 
lonsumption  in  your  family." 

"  ].  would  rather  see  the  truth,"  replied  Blanche,  quietly. 
'  It  is  much  better  for  me,  for  then  I  can  prepare  myself;  and 
j'ou  must  let  me  say  to-night  what  I  would,  if  I  were  quite  sure 
of  our  never  meeting  again  on  earth." 

"  No,  no,"  exclaimed  Eleanor ;  "  I  cannot  bear  it ;  I  cannot 
listen  to  it ;  and  we  shall  meet  again." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  in  heaven.  God  grant  it,"  said  Blanche,  so- 
lemnly, and  Eleanoi  buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  Blanche 
waited  for  her  to  speak,  but  there  was  neither  voice  nor  sound, 
save  the  ticking  of  the  clock,  which  marked  the  minutes  that 
were  speeding  towards  Eternity.  Then  Blanche  raised  herself 
on  the  sofe,  and  said,  as  she  joined  her  hands  together  and  a 
flush  tinged  her  ashy  cheek,  "  We  have  often  talked  of  this 
hour  ;  we  have  thought  what  it  would  be  to  die.  Eleanor, 
dearest,  it  is  very  awful — very  real ;  more  real  far  than  any- 
thing in  life,  except  prayer  and  communion  with  God." 

"  AtkI  that  I  have  neglected,"  said  Eleanor,  without  raising 
her  head. 

"Yes,"  continued  Blanche,  in  the  same  earnest  tone,  "you 
have  told  me  so  ;  and  I  have  thought  about  it  when  I  have  beea 
lying  here  alone  ;  and  I  hoped  I  might  ask  you — I  might  beg 
you — the  wishes  of  the  dying  are  sacred,"  she  added,  her  voice 
changing  into  a  touching  gentleness  of  entreaty. 

Eleanor  rose  from  her  seat,  and,  kneeling  beside  her,  said, 
"Ask  me  what  you  will,  if  only  I  may  be  like  you." 

"  I  can  see — I  think  I  can,"  continued  Blanche,  "  what  has  been 
my  own  safety,  in  a  measure,  as  far  as  I  have  been  safe  : — or 
rather,"  she  added,  correcting  hei-self,  "  what  has  been  permitted 
to  help  me.  It  was  my  rule — my  order  for  every  day ;  ord<T 
ui  my  prayers,  I  mean  ;  not  leaving  them  to  chance  or  feeling, 


328  THE     earl's    daughter. 

but  being  forced  to  go  at  fixed  times.  It  was  Mrs.  Ilowari  is 
wish  that  first  made  me  feel  that  I  was  forced,  and  then  it 
became  necessary." 

"  Mrs.  Howard  gave  me  the  rule  too,"  said  Eleanor  humbly, 
"  but  I  did  not  keep  it." 

"  But  now,  now,  for  my  sake — in  memory  of  me,  when  I  am 
gone,  Eleanor,  it  is  my  last  wish,  because  I  feel  that  in  your  case 
it  involves  all  other  duties.  Only  promise  me  that  once  in  the 
day,  not  merel}"  in  the  morning  and  at  night,  you  will  ])ray." 

And  Eleanor  kissed  her,  and  answered,  "  I  will  promise ;  but 
I  shall  never  be  like  you." 

Blanche  sank  back,  with  a  smile,  as  if  a  weight  had  been  taken 
from  her  mind,  and  after  a  moment's  silence  continued,  "  And 
one  thing  more  I  would  say  whilst  time  is  granted  me  to 
speak.  I  would  say  it  rather  than  write  it,  because  I  can  speak 
it  more  earnestly,  more  truly,  as  it  should  bespoken.  I  told  you 
I  was  happy.  Eleanor,  that  does  not  express  what  I  feel ;  it  is 
all  so  strange  and  overpowering.  But  there  is  something 
beyond  happiness — rest,  peace,  love."  Her  dark  eyes  were 
lighted  up  with  the  sparkling  flash  of  intense  feeling,  as  she 
added,  "  Love  which  is  perfect,  satisfying ;  the  dream  of  my 
childhood,  which  now  I  have  found."  She  became  very 
exhausted,  and  Eleanor,  seeing  that  her  presence  was  exciting, 
felt  that  she  must  go.  But  as  she  stood  up  to  depart  it  seemed 
impossible.  Blanche  motioned  to  her  to  sit  down  again; 
Eleanor  paused.  She  went  to  the  table  and  took  up  a  large 
morocco  case,  which  she  had  laid  upon  it  on  her  first  entrance. 

"  Stay  a  few  minutes  longer,"  said  Blanche ;  "  I  will  not 
talk." 

Eleanor  approached  her  ;  the  case  was  in  her  hand.  "  Hark  !" 
she  said,  "  it  is  six  o'clock.     My  mother  will  be  wanting  me." 

Blanche  looked  up  with  the  impulse  to  send  a  message,  but  a 
blank,  miserable  recollection,  checked  her. 

"  She  sent  her  love  to  you  to-day,"  continued  Eleanor,  unable 
to  restrain  her  tears,  "  and  — "  she  held  out  the  case. 

Blanche  stretched  out  her  hand,  but  it  was  quite  powerless  ; 
and  she  could  only  say  in  a  feeble  tone,  "  Open  it." 

"  I  will  leave  it  with  you,"  said  Eleanor,  "  it  is — " 

"  Yes,  I  know  ;  open  it — let  me  see  it." 

And  Eleanor  touched  the  spring,  and  revealed  the  bright, 
lovely  features  of  the  young  Countess  of  Rutherford.  The 
mother  and  the  child  ; — how  like  !  and  yet  how  different !  As 
Blanche  motioned  to  Eleanor  to  place  the  picture  near  her,  and 


TiiK    earl's    dacghter.  32& 

Eleanor's  eye  wandered  from  one  to  the  other,  she  could  almos* 
have  supposed  that  the  tale  of  each  sweet  fiace  had  been 
reversed ;  that  the  radiant  beauty  displayed  by  the  artist  was  the 
image  of  Blanche  just  entering  upon  the  world's  enjoyments  ; 
and  that  the  worn,  sunk  features  of  the  gentle  girl,  were  the 
signs  of  the  life  of  sorrow  about  to  find  repose  in  death. 

Blanche  gazed  at  the  picture  long  and  silently,  "  Thank  her," 
she  said  at  length  to  Eleanor,  in  a  trembling  voice, "  very  mucru 
Tei4  her — you  know  how  I  value  it." 

"  It  should  have  been  yours  before,  dearest,"  said  Eleanor. 

"  No  no ;  it  is  in  time.  It  will  do  its  work  ;"  and  turning 
away  her  head,  she  murmured,  "  he  has  made  me  happy,  and 
she  will  forgive." 

Eleanor  drew  near  to  sav,  good  b'3"e. 

"  God  bless  you,  Eleanor,  my  own  precious  Eleanor  ;  and  keep 
you  safe.  Think  of  me  when  you  pray — in  Church — always;'' 
and  Eleanor  could  only  answer  by  sobs,  and  the  half-uttered 
delusive  hope,  that  they  might  meet  again. 


CHAPTER  LIII. 

Why  should  we  linger  so  fondly  over  the  last  hours  of  the 
dying  ?— =-why  should  we  delight  to  dwell  upon  the  form,  and 
hneaments,  and  expression  of  that  which  is  now  so  loved 
and  valued,  but  which  soon  must  be  hidden  from  our  sight  ? — 
why  should  we  trejisure  up  each  word  and  tone  to  be  recalled 
in  the  hour  of  desolation,  and  pierce  with  a  deeper  anguish  the 
heart  that  already  is  crushed  to  the  dust  ?  We  are  but  adding 
to  our  grief ;  yet  we  would  rather  cherish  it  than  part  from  it ; 
for  it  is  dearer  than  happiness,  more  ])recious  than  joy,  since  it 
is  instinct  with  the  hopes  of  immortality.  It  is  a  grietj  however 
which  needs  no  description.  We  have  but  to  ask  our  own 
hearts ;  and,  even  if  tlie  dread  exjierience  has  as  yet  been 
spared  us,  we  can  tell  all  the  outward  forms  wiiich  it  must 
assume.  The  last  departure  from  Rutherford,  who  cannot  ])ic- 
ture  it  ?  That  momentary  excitement — the  struggle  of  conflict- 
ing feelings — of  dying  hojie,  and  ever-present  fear — the  petty 
cares,  and  ordinary  trials  of  a  journey,  and  the  never-ccasiiii; 
anxiety  and  dread  felt  through  all,  lest  the  change  should  havp 
bi'cn  made  too  late. 

The  earl  liojwd,  even  then;    though  he  thought  he  did  lu.l 


330  THE    earl's    daughter. 

If  he  had  not  hoped,  he  never  would  have  taken  Blanche  away, 
for  he  saw  at  last  how  much  it  cost  her.  The  pain  of  fatii^ue 
she  could  not  hide,  though  the  pain  of  regret  she  could.  There 
is  something  in  the  very  name  of  home  inexpressibly  dear  to  us 
when  we  are  very  ill  ;  and  Blanche's  home,  notwithstanding  all 
Ikm-  disappointments,  had  been  a  very  happy  one.  But  she  left  it 
without  a  word  of  complaint,  or  expression  of  sorrow;  only  with 
a  few  silent  tears,  as  she  looked  for  the  last  time  on  the  window 
of  her  mother's  chamber,  and  raised  herself  to  smile  a  farewell 
to  Eleanor,  who,  unable  to  leave  Mrs.  Wentworth  as  she  had 
anticipated,  was  standing  at  the  rectory  gate  to  see  her  pass. 

But  that  parting  was  over  and  the  journey  was  borne  with 
tolerable  ease ;  and  Blanche  reached  the  place  of  her  destina- 
tion, and  felt  the  freshness  of  the  sea-breeze,  and  saw  the  spark- 
ling of  the  bright  waters  beneath  a  brilliant  noon-day  sun ;  and, 
strengthened  for  a  few  days,  seemed  to  enjoy  her  daily  drive 
and  the  novelty  of  the  view,  and  thought — yes,  still  she  thou-i-ht, 
and  knew — that  she  was  dying. 

Yet  days  went  by  as  before.  Habits  and  customs,  and  old 
familiar  ways  and  interests,  crowd  around  us,  even  to  the  last ; 
and  in  the  spacious  mansion,  where  provided  with  every  luxury  of 
refinement,  guarded  from  every  blast,  shaded  from  every  intrud- 
ing glare,  Blanche  was  learning  to  prepare  herself  for  Heaven, 
there  was  a  common  life  of  vexing  thoughts  and  worldly  occupa- 
tions pressing  forward,  eager,  hopeful,  save  when  it  approached 
the  sick  chamber  of  her  upon  whose  young  brow  was  written 
the  doom  of  all  earthly  beauty,  "  passing  away."* 

There  all  was  stilled  as  in  the  presence  of  an  angel  visitant. 
For  it  grew,  day  by  day,  even  hour  by  hour,  the  pure  ethereal 
beauty  of  that  heaven-born  spirit  which  is  the  portion  of  God's 
elect.  When  Blanche  had  put  a«;ide  her  few  earthly  cares,  she 
was  able  to  fix  her  thoughts  steadily  upon  eternity.  The  world 
to  which  she  was  hastening  became  her  home,  and  though  her 
perceptions  were  dim,  and  her  anticipations  vag-ue,  she  could 
still  dwell  upon  some  certainties,  before  which  all  earthly  joys 
faded  into  nothingness. 

*  From  the  stars  of  heaven  and  the  flowers  of  earth, 
From  the  pas^eant  of  power  and  the  voice  of  mirth. 
From  the  mists  of  morn  on  the  mountain's  brow, 
From  childhood's  song  and  affection's  vow — 
From  all,  save  that  o'er  which  soul  bears  sway. 
Breathes  but  one  record — passing  away. 

MkS.  HtKiK*. 


THE    earl's    daughter.  331 

She  would  be  sinless  there  and  at  rest ; — at  rest  in  th^ 
presence  of  her  Saviour ;  and  the  blessedness  of  that  hope  nona 
can  tell  but  they  to  whom  every  earthly  affection  is  secondary. 
It  was  no  dream  to  Blanche,  that  the  love  of  God  alone  can 
satisfy  the  human  heart;  it  was  a  fact,  taught  by  each  day's 
experience.  The  Being  to  whom  she  could  turn  in  every  trial, 
however  sjight ;  the  Friend  whose  presence  she  always  felt ;  the 
love  which  could  never  change,  even  with  the  changes  of  hei 
owp  weak,  unstable  heart;  were  realities,  beneath  which  her 
sinking  spirit  reposed  as  beneath  "  the  shadow  of  a  great  rock 
in  a  weary  land."  When  the  terror  of  death  overwhelmed  her, 
she  turned  to  them  with  an  unutterable  sense  of  safety  and 
relief;  whilst  every  trifling  comfort  and  every  momerit  of  ease 
■were  regarded  as  the  sure  pledges  of  that  untiring  watchfulness 
which,  if  it  guarded  her  so  carefully  in  life,  could  never  leave 
her  lonely  in  death. 

A.nd  it  was  not  trust  merely  that  Blanche  felt.  Trust  is  oui 
fjiith  in  a  Power;  loke  is  our  devotion  to  a  Person.  She  had 
trusted  all  her  life,  and  she  had  loved  too  more  than  she  knew. 
Now  she  was  beginning  to  comprehend  her  own  heart,  to  under- 
stand its  yearnings  after  perfection,  its  cravings  for  a  fulness  of 
affection  which  she  had  been  told  could  be  found  on  earth,  but 
which  she  had  often  feared  might,  if  it  satistied  her,  border 
upon  idolatry.  She  could  not  envy  others,  even  with  the  purest 
prospects  of  this  world's  happiness.  She  had  found  "  the  pearl 
of  great  price,"  and  the  wealth  of  the  universe  would  have  been 
worthless  in  its  exchange. 

Lord  Rutherford  saw  that  she  was  happy,  and  even  in  the 
midst  of  his  anguish  he  could  not  be  insensible  to  the  comfort ; 
yet  the  sight  of  "  the  peace  which  passeth  understanding"  Wiis 
often  goading  to  his  self-reproach,  since  it  seemed  to  widen  the 
gulf  that  sej)arated  him  and  his  child. 

He  was  alone  with  Blanche,  one  evening,  about  a  fortnight 
after  their  removal  from  Rutherford,  and  she  was  speaking  to 
him  of  St.  Ebbe's,  and  of  her  wish  to  go  there  soon,  and  saying 
that  she  was  becoming  anxious  about  it,  for  the  distance  was 
not  very  great ; — she  thought  they  might  return  if— she  paused, 
and  then  finished  her  sentence  firmly — if  she  should  live. 

He  did  not  shrink  from  her  words  ;  but,  as  he  fondly 
smoothed  her  hair,  replied,  that  he  did  not  see  she  wjis  worse, 
but  he  was  afraid  she  must  be. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  she  knew  that  she  was  worse,  for  she  was 
weaker  ;  and  she  had  spoken  to  Dr.  Granville,  and  lisktd  what 


332  THE    earl's    daughter. 

he  tliouglit  about  her  going  to  St.  Ebbe's,  and  he  had  told  her 
tliat  if  she  really  wished  it  so  very  much  he  could  not  say  no, 
but  he  would  not  advise  it.  "  I  will  not  urge  it  if  you  don't 
like  it,  dear  papa,"  she  added  ;  "  but  Mrs.  Howard  could  only 
come  to  me  for  one  night,  without  great  difficulty,  and " 

The  earl  interru])ted  her,  "  Wish  it,  my  child  !  my  wishes 
against  yours  !" 

"  They  ought  to  be  against  mine,"  said  Blanche,  "  if  you  like 
it ;  but  you  have  always  been  so  kind ;  you  have  spoiled  me, 
and  now  I  am  bent  upon  my  own  way."  She  spoke  lightly 
and  playfully,  as  she  might  have  done  months  before.  It  was 
the  voice  more  than  the  words  which  touched  the  weak  chord 
of  the  earl's  heart,  and  made  the  tears  gather  in  his  eyes. 

"  You  have  quite  spoiled  me,"  continued  Blanche,  in  the 
same  tone  ;  but  it  changed  the  next  moment,  for  her  father  was 
leaning  his  head  against  her  pillow  in  silent  wretchedness. 
"  You  must  let  me  thank  you,"  she  said.  "  By-and-by,  you 
will  like  to  think  of  me  as  happy  always — happy  in  my  lite  with 
you,  and  very — very  happy  in  my  rest." 

He  raised  his  head  and  kissed  her,  and  sank  back  into  the 
same  posture. 

Blanche  considered  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  she  con- 
tinued. "  Being  ill  has  been  a  comfort  to  me  in  many  ways  ; 
because  we  have  been  so  much  together,  and  we  have  been  able 
to  read  the  same  books,  and  have  liked  the  same  things ;  and 
you  will  always  Hke  them  now,  dear  papa ;  wont  you  for  my 
sake  ?" 

Lord  Rutherford  could  only  press  her  hand  ;  he  had  not 
words  to  answer. 

"  I  have  enjoyed  so  very  much  your  reading  to  me  every 
day,"  continued  Blanche  ;  "  and  it  seems  strange  now,  that  I 
should  ever  have  been  afraid  of  asking  you  ;  but  I  know  that, 
when  I  first  came  home,  I  should  have  felt  quite  frightened  if  I 
had  been  told  to  do  it.  Things  have  changed  verj-  much  since 
then." 

"  Yes ;"  replied  the  earl,  in  a  hollow  voice ;  "  they  have 
indeed." 

"  And  changed  lo  make  us  happier  too,"  said  Blanche,  with 
a  little  hesitation.  '*  It  would  have  been  much  worse  to  part 
then,  than  it  is  now." 

"  No,  no,"  exclaimed  the  earl.  "  If  I  had  never  known  you, 
Blanche — if  you  were  only  a  child  whom  I  had  scarcely  seen — ^" 

"  We  might   have   loved  each  other   less,"  said    Blanche ; 


THE    earl's    daughter.  333 

"  but  we  could  never  have  thouglit  of  parting  with  the  same 
peace." 

'*  Peace  !"  repeated  the  earl  bitterly.  "  Peace  for  me  !"  and 
then,  as  he  again  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  he  murmured, 
"  There  is  no  peace  but  for  the  innocent." 

"  Papa,  my  own  dear  papa,"'  said  Blanche,  in  a  tone  of  genthj 
reproach,  ^  she  forced  him  to  move  his  head,  and  look  at  her. 

"  I  am  right,"  he  answered  moodily.  "  Peace  is  for  you,  my 
child ;  and  for  you  I  can  accept  it,  and  be  thankful." 

^^  It  would  not  be  my  peace,"  said  Blanche,  "  if  it  was  not 
yours  too." 

"  Then  it  can  belong  to  neither  of  us,"  exclaimed  the  earl : 
"  unless  a  new  power  is  given  to  mortals  to  blot  out  thf  past." 

"  It  must  be  blotted  out  for  us  all,"  replied  Blanche,  "  before 
we  can  find  peace." 

"  I  know  what  you  would  say,"  replied  the  earl.  "  I  have 
heard  all  that  divines  can  preach ;  and  have  read  their 
books,  and  thought  about  them,  too.  But,  Blanche,  my 
child,  let  it  be  even  as  they  say ;  let  forgiveness  be  granted 
from  heaven,  let  there  be  no  reckoning  of  our  offences  before 
God ; — still,  still  there  is  memory.  Memory,"  he  repeated  to 
himself,  "  that  mocking  fiend !  Blanche,  when  you  are  gone 
from  me,  who  will  give  me  peace  ?" 

Blanche  paused — presently  she  said,  "  Papa,  if  I  could  come 
back  to  -you  and  tell  you  I  was  happy,  would  you  not  be 
so  ?" 

The  earl  looked  at  her  with  a  foint  smile. 

"  If  you  could  see  me,"  continued  Blanche,  "  and  knew  that 
I  had  no  wish  to  return  to  earth,  and  that  my  home  was 
brighter  than  even  you  could  desire  to  make  it ;  and  that  I  was 
with  mamma ;  and  that  she  loved  you  dearly,  and  was  longing 
for  you  to  come  to  her ;  and  if  there  was  a  place  ready  for  you 
— s  place  in  Paradise — in  rest;  would  it  not  be  peace  then  ?" 
Lord  Ptutherford  averted  his  head.  "  It  is  there,"  continued 
Blanche,  her  feeble  tones  becoming  more  earnest ;  "  I  see  it  in 
my  dreams,  when  I  am  by  myself  alone  in  the  twilight.  It  is 
a  home  for  us  all,  and  you  will  come  to  me ;  and  mamma — " 

lie  turned  quickly,  and  caught  lier  hand ;  and,  in  a  voicu 
convulsed  with  emotion,  said,  "  T^-ll  ln-r  I  have  repented  ;  ;u.k 
'ler  to  forgive  im?." 

Blanche  made  no  imme<liate  reply  ;  but  drew  towards  her 
the  case  containing  her  motlier's  picture,  which  was  laid  on  the 
3ofa  bv  her  side,  and  touching  the  spring,  showed  the  sunny 


334  THE     earl's    daughter. 

smile,  the  beauty  of  youth,  and  joy,  and  liope,  on  vvhicli  ihe 
shadow  of  harshness  or  reproach  seemed  as  if  it  could  not  fur 
a  moment  rest, 

"  Look  !  papa,"  she  said,  as  she  threw  her  arms  around  liim. 
"  You  have  made  her  child  hapjiy,  and  does  not  she  forgive?" 

Lord  Kiitherford  took  the  picture  from  her.  Blanche 
watched  him  anxiously.  She  saw  the  farrowed  brow  bent  in 
anguish,  and  the  mouth  quiver  and  the  dark  eye  become  dim ; 
and  then,  large  scalding  drops  fell  slowly  down  the  earl's 
cheeks,  and  pressing  tne  picture  to  his  hps,  he  exclaimed 
passionately,  "  God  bless  and  keep  you  both  for  eve ;"  and  left 
the  room. 

Blanche  missed  the  picture  from  that  evening,  and  nevei 
.•isked  tor  it  aizain. 


CIIAriER  LIV. 


Once  more  it  was  towards  the  close  of  a  summer's  day  ii 
the  quaint  garden  of  the  manor  house  of  St.  Ebbe's  ;  and  long 
shadows  fell  upon  the  lawn,  and  marked  the  hours  on  the  dial- 
plate  as  th<^y  fleeted  by ;  and  the  heavy  tones  of  the  great 
cathedral  clock  resounded  solemnly  from  afar,  and  mingled  with 
and  subdued  the  cheerful  voices  of  children  at  their  play. 

Once  more  !  oh,  many  and  many  a  time  afterwards  might 
the  gladness  of  the  day  melt  gently  into  the  stillness  of  night; 
and  the  loveliness  of  nature's  repose  give  rest  to  the  weary 
lirart ;  and  the  lightness  of  childish  glee  echo  merrily  amidst 
the  old  grey  walls ;  but  never  again  would  Blanche  Evelyn 
rejoice  in  the  rush  of  early  memories  which  thronged  around  her, 
as  she  looked  from  the  window  of  her  own  chamber  on  the 
first  evening  of  her  arrival  at  St.  Ebbe's. 

She  could  indeed  rejoice — most  happy  amongst  the  happy — 
most  blessed  amongst  the  blest.  With  her  father  to  watch 
over  her,  and  smile  mournfully,  yet  with  the  sweetness  of  a 
hope  better  than  that  of  life ;  and  Mrs.  Howard  to  sit  by  hei', 
and  talk  to  her ;  and  Maude  to  busy  herself  in  the  arrange- 
ments which  now  were  so  necessary  to  her  comfort ;  that  first 
evening  was  one  of  quiet,  full  contentment  to  herself — what  it 
was  to  others  we  need  i^ot  raise  the  veil  which  hides  the  bitter- 
ness of  mortal  grief  to  describe. 

The  first  meeting  had  been  a  great  shock  to  Mrs.  Howard, 


THE     KARLS     DAUGHTER.  335 

much  greater  than  she  dared  express.  She  was  not  at  all  pre- 
pared for  Blanche's  extreme  weakness ;  for  letters  seldom  really 
describe  in  detail,  and  it  is  only  by  details  that  those  well 
practised  in  the  sad  scenes  of  illness,  can  tell  the  real  state. 
Lord  Rutherford  had  said  she  seemed  rather  better ;  Maude 
had  written  to  make  preparation,  as  if  she  would  be  able  to  sit 
up  a  great  deal,  and  even  to  drive  out ;  and  Blanche,  herself, 
had  expressed  the  utmost  delight  at  the  prospect  of  her  visit, 
though  she  said  plainly  that  she" felt  it  must  be  her  last. 

They  were  all  then  deluding  themselves  ;  looking  forward  to 
months  !  Mrs.  Howard,  when  she  saw  her,  could  not  hope  for 
weeks.  Yet  she  met  Blanche  calmly  and  cheerfully  ;  congratu- 
lated Lord  Rutherford  on  her  having  borne  the  journey  so  well ; 
and  suffered  her  to  talk  as  long  as  she  could  about  alfthat  had 
passed ;  and  then,  when  Blanche  at  length  went  to  bed,  quite 
worn  out,  Mrs.  Howard  retired  to  her  own  room,  to  find  com- 
fort in  solitude  for  that  heavy  aching  of  the  heart,  which  could 
not  even  obtain  relief  from  tears. 

This  state  of  things  continued  for  a  few  days  ;  at  least  Lord 
Rutherford  fancied  that  it  did.  He  did  not  know  every 
symptom  of  the  comjtlaint ;  and  he  had  been  so  accustomed 
lately  to  its  changes,  that  he  was  almost  beginning  to  think 
little  of  them.  Blanche  was  more  feverish,  he  thought — but 
that  he  ^.ttributed  to  excitement — and  he  urged  Mrs.  Howard 
to  keep  her  more  quiet ;  and  Mrs.  Howard,  complying  with  his 
request,  would  take  her  work  and  sit  in  the  room,  and  intend 
not  to  talk.  But  the  intention  could  not  be  easily  kept — there 
was  so  much  to  say  and  to  hear ;  and  Blanche  felt  so  inexpres- 
sibly relieved  when  she  could  unburthen  herself  to  the  accumu- 
lated weight  of  anxieties  which  had  grown  up  since  they  parted, 
and  be  assured  that  she  had  acted  under  them  well  and  wisely. 
It  was  such  a  comfort,  too,  to  speak  of  her  father,  and  point  out 
the  indications  of  his  change  of  mind,  on  Avhich  she  so  fondly 
dwelt ;  and  to  find  that  Mrs.  Howard  \'iewed  them  as  she  did 
herself.  She  tried  to  be  quiet  and  unexcited,  and  for  hours 
she  would  lie  perfectly  still  from  weakness  ;  but  some  thought 
or  recollection  would  strike  her,  and  conversation  began,  almost 
unawares,  again.  This  was  injurious  to  her ;  but  it  mattered 
little.  Perfect  repose,  both  of  body  and  mind,  could  scarcely 
have  retarded  the  progress  of  a  disoa«;e,  which,  by  trifling  varia- 
tions and  imperceptible  changes  in  its  symptoms,  too  surely 
bore  the  mandate  of  approaching  death. 

No  one  saw   it  but  Mrs.  Howaid.     Huw  she  endured  the 


330  THE    eakl's    daughter. 

certainty,  without  distressing  others  by  her  own  convictions,  sli« 
could  never  comprehend,  except  by  referring  her  calmness  to 
the  support  which  is  always  sent  when  it  is  needed.  Her  love 
for  Blanche  was  no  common  feeling  :  it  had  in  it  the  strength 
of  her  long  attachment  to  the  Countess  of  Rutherford,  and  of 
the  entire  devotion  of  a  mother  to  Blanche  during  her  child- 
hood ;  and  the  year  which  had  parted  them,  though  it  had  been 
full  of  incident  and  change  to  herself,  had  never  separated  them 
in  thought.  Still  it  had  been  her  proud  desire  to  see  Blanche 
in  her  own  home,  shedding  far  around  the  light  and  charm  of 
her  goodness,  and  her  beauty  ;  and  even  when  she  said  to  her- 
self that  all  was  better  as  it  was — that  Blanche  might  have  sunk 
imder  the  great  temptations  to  which  she  was  exposed  ;  or  even 
if  she  had  conquered  them,  might,  eventually,  have  fallen  a  prey 
to  the  morbid  depression  of  spirits  which  had  so  often  shown 
itself  in  her  mother's  family — yet  it  was  hard,  really,  to  feel  the 
truth  of  her  own  words.  She  knew  it  was  best  that  Blanche 
should  go — it  was  the  appointment  of  Infinite  Love  ;  and  it 
could  not  be  other  than  merciful.  Yet  how  was  the  parting  to 
be  endured  ? 

They  had  been  together  about  a  week,  and  during  that  time 
Blanche  had  taken  two  drives,  which  seemed  however  to  fatigue 
her  ;  and  Lord  Rutherford  therefore  said,  she  had  better  wait 
till  the  weather  was  a  little  cooler.  So  she  remained  in  the 
house,  and  tried  to  read  a  little,  but  her  eyes  were  weak,  and  it 
■was  a  trouble  to  her  to  hold  a  book  in  her  hand.  Lord  Ruther- 
ford read  to  her  occasionally,  but  she  could  not  listen  long ; 
and  for  the  last  two  days  she  had  found  it  as  much  as  she  could 
bear  to  attend  during  the  daily  visits  of  the  clergyman — the 
rector  who  had  prepared  her  for  confirmation.  Ker  father  was 
generally  with  her  at  these  times,  for  she  was  not  able  to  be  left 
alone  ;  and  she  liked  him  to  kneel  by  her  side,  holding  her 
hand  in  his,  and  repeating  the  prayers  with  her.  He  scarcely 
ever  spoke  more  than  was  quite  necessary,  but  he  never  seemed 
impatient  or  wearied  ;  and  Blanche  could  perceive  a  marked 
change  in  the  tone  in  which  he  said  the  Confession.  It  was 
earnest  and  humble,  as  if  it  was  a  I'elief  to  him  to  join  in  it. 

Blanche  was  quite  sure  that  his  feelings  about  religion  were 
very  difl:erent  from  what  they  had  been  ;  but  she  did  not  dare 
talk  to  him  about  them  ;  and  she  could  not  ask  him  why  he 
had  altered  so  much  since  the  day  of  their  short  conversation, 
when  she  had  shown  him  the  countess's  picture.  She  fancied 
t'lat  perhaps  he  really  felt  now  that  her  inother  had  forgiven 


THE      EARL    S      DAUGHTER.  337 

hiin  ;  and  Nvith  tbat  load  of  remorse  and  despair  Liken  from 
his  mind,  slie  hoped  he  might  shrink  less  from  the  thought  of 
receiving  Holy  Communion  with  her.  She  could  scarcely  realise 
the  comfort  that  would  be  to  them  both  ;  but  she  did  not  know 
how  to  approach  the  subject.  It  was  difficult  to  tell  whether 
she  might  or  ought.  He  had  neglected  it  she  feared  for  so 
many  yejirs  ;  though  she  knew  that,  as  a  very  young  man,  he 
had  been  accustomed  to  receive  it  regularly  ;  and  ouce  he  had 
allnded  to  it  and  sighed,  as  if  those  were  better  and  happier 
times  than  he  could  ever  expect  to  return.  She  said  something 
to  Mrs.  Howard  about  it,  and  hoped  that  through  her  it  might 
be  named  to  the  rector  ;  and  that  he  would  suggest  what  she 
might  do.  But  one  or  two  days  slipped  by,  and  there  were 
some  reasons  for  delay  ;  and  when  the  rector  called  again, 
Blanche  was  not  able  to  see  him.  She  was  much  later  that 
morning  than  usual  in  waking,  for  she  had  scarcely  slept  at  all 
during  the  early  part  of  the  night.  Mrs.  Howard  thought  she 
had  better  not  leave  her  bed,  but  she  was  anxious  to  be  dressed, 
for  she  thought  she  should  be  more  comfortable ;  and  they 
brought  her  into  the  sitting-room,  in  the  afternoon,  and  laid  her 
on  the  sofa,  which  w;is  drawn  in  front  of  the  window.  Lord 
Rutherford  was  to  have  gone  into  the  town  in  the  afternoon  ; 
but  she  looked  so  ill,  that  he  did  not  like  to  leave  her,  even  for 
half  an  hour,  and  he  sat  in  the  room  with  her,  writing  ;  for  she 
could  not'  listen  to  reading.  The  house  was  kept  very  quiet, 
and  Mrs,  Howard  and  Maude  were  by  themselves  a  great  part 
of  the  time,  for  they  were  afraid  to  disturb  her  by  having  too 
many  in  the  room.  They  did  not  go  to  her  till  it  was  growing 
late  ;  and,  when  they  opened  the  door,  Lord  Rutherford  was 
reading  one  of  the  prayei^s  from  the  Visitation  Service  ;  and 
they  closed  it  again  very  softly  and  went  away.  Blanche  had 
borne  that  so  well  that  the  earl  thought  he  might  venture  to 
tij'k  to  her,  and  he  kissed  her,  and  said,  it  had  been  a  bad  day, 
but  he  hoped  they  should  have  a  better  one  to-morrow. 

Blanche  smiled  doubtfully.  "  Yes,"  she  repHed  ;  it  had  been 
a  bad  day  in  many  ways,  but  it  had  been  very  quiet,  and  she 
Lad  not  been  suftering  pain,  except  a  little  occasionally,  and  she 
was  very  glad  to  be  able  to  be  dressed  and  come  into  the  sitting- 
room  once  more.  "  I  don't  think  I  shall  come  in  to-morrow," 
she  added. 

The  earl  turned  pale  ;  "  I  am  glad  to  see  the  sun  set  again," 
continued  Blanche,  "  because  I  was  always  so  fond  of  it — tho 


838  THE     earl's    daughter. 

F.iiiiset  here  especially.  Papa,  it  was  just  at  this  very  time  in 
the  evening  last  year,  that  you  came  ;  do  you  recollect  it  ?" 

Poor  Lord  Kutherford  I  what  would  he  not  have  given  to 
have  been  able  to  forget ! 

"  You  will  remember  that  sunset  was  my  favourite  time, 
wont  you  ?"  said  Blanche  ;  "  and  that  it  always  seemed  to  me, 
when  I  was  a  child — and  even  sometimes  it  does  now — as  if  it 
was  part  of  Heaven,  and  as  if  all  the  forms  of  the  clouds  were 
real  things,  mountains  and  lakes.  It  is  very  bright  and  beauti- 
ful this  evening,"  she  added,  gazing  on  it  intently. 

"  We  may  hope  to  have  many  like  it,  at  this  time  of  the 
year,"  said  the  earl,  in  a  tone  which  was  fearfully  calm. 

"Yes,  I  hope  you  will  have  a  great  many,"  continued 
Blanche  ;  "  and  you  must  not  let  them  make  you  sad,  dear 
papa  ;  but  you  must  think  they  are  the  pictures  of  my  kome — 
our  home,"  she  added,  correcting  herself. 

The  earl  compressed  his  lips  firmly  together,  and  Blanche  felt 
his  hand  tremble. 

"  You  will  take  me  back  to  Rutherford,  I  know,"  she  said, 
after  a  pause,  seeing  that  he  could  not  trust  himself  to  speak  ; 
"  and,  perhaps,  by-and-by,  you  will  be  pleased  to  think  that  I 
am  lying  near  you,  when  you  are  in  church,  as  I  used  to  think 
of  mamma.  And  one  thing,  may  I  say  it  ? — I  cannot  bear  to 
pain  you,"  and  she  kissed  his  forehead,  and  waited  till  he  said, 
"  Go  on." 

"  One  thing  I  have  a  fancy  about.  I  should  not  like 
anything  grand  to  be  put  upon  my  coffin,  only  my  name  and 
the  date,  and  a  cross."  She  waited  to  take  breath,  for  the 
exertion  of  much  speaking  was  very  trying. 

"  Anything  else  ?  tell  me  all,"  said  the  earl.  He  was 
summoning  every  effort  to  remain  calm,  for  he  knew  now  what 
these  last  wishes  foreboded. 

"  I  should  be  glad  to  feel  that  you  would  not  go  away  from 
Eutherford,"  said  Blanche;  even  then  shrinking  from  that 
which  might  appear  dictating  to  him.  "  I  like  to  fancy  that 
you  will  be  near  where  I  am  resting ;  and  I  should  feel  that  all 
the  poor  people  whom  I  care  about  would  be  thought  of;  and 
that  Dr.  Wentworth  would  have  some  one  to  help  him  in 
what  he  wants  to  do  in  the  parish.  Perhaps  by-and-by  you 
would  try  and  remember  me  to  some  of  the  old  persons  I  used 
to  visit,  and  to  poor  Susannah  Dyer.  I  wrote  their  names 
down  one  day  to  give  to  you.     Maude  has  the  paper." 

"  Is  that  all  ?"  said  the  earl. 


THE      EARLS      DAUGHTER.  339 

"  Yes,  all ;  except  the  directions  I  gave  b(?fore  I  left  home, 
and  " — she  pointed  to  her  Bible,  from  which  the  earl  had  been 
accustomed  to  read  to  her.  "  It  was  given  to  me  by  Mrs. 
Howard,  on  the  day  of  my  confirmation,"  she  said  ;  "  will  you 
keep  it  and  love  it  i  and " 

"Read  it?"  said  the  earl,  earnestly;  "Yes;  that  indeed  I 
may  promise." 

"  It  is  marked,"  continued  Blanche.  "  I  think  you  will 
und^tand  the  marks.  I  have  put  the  date  to  some  of  the 
lessons  which  you  have  read  to  me ;  and  there  is  my  Prayer 
Book  also  ;  the  Psalms  I  like  best  for  prayers  aivi  marked  in 
that."  She  feebly  turned  the  pages,  till  the  book  was  opened 
at  the  office  for  the  Holy  Communion.  It  was  headed  by  a 
date  of  the  preceding  year.  "  The  day  of  my  first  Commu- 
nion," she  said,  pointing  to  it ;  and  as  the  earl  bent  down  to 
look  nearer,  or,  possibly,  to  hide  the  feelings  which  were  visible 
in  his  face,  she  added,  "  Will  you  mark  it  with  the  date  of  the 
last  ?  to-morrow  if  it  may  be." 

"  To-morrow !  Blanche,  my  precious,  precious  child ;  I 
cannot  part  with  you.  God  forgive  me  !  Oh  grant  that  I  may 
boar  it !" 

Blanche  would  not  let  him  give  way.  She  said,  he  must 
not ;  it  would  be  wrong  now  when  they  had  such  infinite 
comfort ;  when  they  were  one — one  whatever  might  happen. 
The  next  Communion  might  not  be  the  last ;  but  she  thought 
it  would ;  and  she  was  going  to  ask  him  to  writQ  to  the  rector, 
ind  fix  it  decidedly.  It  had  been  left  a  little  uncertain  on  the 
preceding  day.  The  earl  seized  some  note-paper,  and  began  to 
write.  Blanche  put  out  her  hand  to  stop  him.  Her  look  was 
so  anxious,  so  pleading,  that  he  threw  aside  his  pen,  and  knelt 
beside  her.  "  Together,"  said  Blanche,  and  in  her  agitation, 
she  gasped  for  breath  ;  "  for  the  first  and  last  time  together." 
And  as  the  earl  bent  his  head  upon  her  hand  his  answer  wa-s, 
"  Pray  for  me,  that  I  may  not  be  rejected." 

Blanche  was  taken  early  to  her  bed  that  evening,  for  she  was 
veiy  much  weakened,  and  in  some  pain ;  and  her  breathing 
was  very  short.  Lord  Rutherford  sat  up  with  her,  and  Mrs. 
Howard.  Till  this  sudden  change  it  had  been  sufficient  to  have 
a  servant  sleeping  in  her  room.  The  earl  looked  ill  and  worn, 
but  no  one  thought  of  advising  him  to  go  to  rest. 

Blanche  was  very  restless  all  the  night,  and  they  could  not 
:juiet  her  in  any  way  ;  though  sometimes  Mrs.  Howard  said  a 
vei-se  of  a  Psalm  to  her,  and  she  appeared  to  like  it.     She 


340  THE      earl's      DAUGHTEi:, 

scarcely  spoke,  except  to  ask  for  a  little  tea ;  but  she  was  fjuite 
sensible,  and  smiled  at  her  father  when  he  came  up  to  her,  and 
followed  him  with  her  eye  when  he  turned  away  ;  and,  at  last, 
after  he  had  been  trying  to  settle  her  more  comfortably,  she  laid 
her  head  on  the  pillow,  resting  on  his  arm,  and  fell  asleep  with 
her  hand  clasped  in  his. 

She  slept  in  this  way  for  about  an  hour  and  a  half,  and 
woke  as  if  startled.  Lord  Rutherford  was  in  the  room  with  her 
alone.  There  was  a  change ;  he  saw  that  directly,  and  rano- 
the  bell.  .'  « 

Blanche  looked  up  eagerly,  and  tried  to  say  something,  and 
the  earl  bent  down  to  catch  the  words  :  "  Will  he  come  ?  Wnl 
there  be  time,  do  you  think  ?"  she  asked. 

The  earl  hesitated  for  an  instant.  Then  he  answered  with 
perfect  composure  :  "  We  can  send,  and  he  will  come  at  any 
moment;"  and  Blanche  joined  her  thin  hands,  and  said, 
"  Thank  God,"  and  sank  quietly  back  on  the  pillow. 

It  was  but  half  an  hour  from  that  time,  and  the  Service  for 
the  Communion  of  the  Sick  was  celebrated  in  Blanche's  dying 
chamber.  Mrs.  Howard,  Maude,  and  Lord  Rutherford  kneeling 
by  her  bed. 

And  it  was  over — and  Lord  Rutherford  knelt  still;  and 
Blanche's  eyes  closed,  and  her  lips  moved  in  prayer.  A  few 
minutes  passed  of  peace  unutterable  ;  and  then  Blanche  faintly 
smiled  upon  Mrs.  Howard  and  Maude  ;  and  tried  to  press  her 
father's  hand,  and  whispered :  "  Papa,  good  b'ye."  The  earl 
raised  his  head,  but  she  never  spoke  again. 

Long,  long,  he  remained  listening  to  the  faint,  scarcely 
perceptible  breathing,  until  at  length  there  was  a  gentle  sigh, — 
and  the  stillness  of  death  rested  upon  the  features  of  his  darlinir 
child. 

They  laid  her  to  rest  by  her  mother's  side,  in  the  vault 
beneath  the  chapel  of  the  Evelyns,  in  the  old  church  of  Ruther- 
ford. There,  not  many  years  afterwards,  reposed  the  mortal 
remains  of  one  who,  if  a  deep  repentance  can  avail  to  obtain 
mercy,  most  surely  carried  with  him  to  his  grave,  the  pardon  of 
God,  as  well  as  the  blessing  of  man. 

Lord  Rutherford  never  left  his  home  for  more  than  a  few 
months,  when  he  returned  to  it  after  Blanche's  death.  If 
ambition,  or  indolence,  or  the  love  of  pleasure  had  charms  for 
him,  they  were  sacrificed  in  the  service  of  the  Master  to  whom, 
though  late,  he  had  devoted  himself. 


THE     earl's    daughter.  341 

llis  memory  is  still  cherished  amongst  his  people.  They 
talk  of  his  truth  and  uprightness,  his  thoughtfulness  and 
liberality,  his  piety  and  consistency;  and  if  they  say  that  he  was 
cold  in  manner,  and  solitary  in  his  habits,  they  know  that 
he  lived  in  spirit  with  the  dead,  and  they  marvel  not  that  he 
had  few  aflections  left  to  devote  to  the  living.  Even  now,  when 
his  castle-Is  the  possession  of  another,  they  point  out  the  terrace 
where  he  used  to  walk, — sometimes  with  Maude,  the  only 
pei^on  who  was  ever  known  to  visit  him  in  his  retirement,  but 
oftener  alone — watching  the  golden  sunset  intently,  as  if  it  was 
a  reality  of  heaven  rather  than  a  dream  of  earth  ;  and  when 
they  point  to  the  escutcheon  of  his  earthly  glory,  and  sigh  over 
the  honours  of  a  race  extinct,  there  are  many  to  pray  that,  like 
the  last  Earl  of  lUitherford,  they  may  one  day  rest  in  the  "  sure 
and  certain  hope  "  of  "  those  who  sleep  in  Jesus." 


VTLU     END, 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
^^ (j'-piis. boKcJc  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-50»«-7,'54(5990)444 


^    -.    ^' 


■-i^--  •*. 


AA 


1:'^--,' 


000  374  613 


10" 
B  _ 


t 


PLEAf  E  DO  NOT  REMOVE 
THIS  BOOK  CARD   ^ 


<^l-LitRARY(^ 


^A'OillVDiO^' 


University  Research  Library 


U 


9ef\ 


;/'H  *i 


if  ''-^ 


^. 


